Graphic Signs of Authority in Late Antiquity and The Early Middle Ages Ildar Garipzanov Full Chapter

Graphic Signs of Authority in Late
Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages

Ildar Garipzanov
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OX F O R D S T U D I E S I N M E D I E VA L
E U RO P E A N H I S TO RY
General Editors
joh n h . a rn old pat r i c k j . ge a ry
and
joh n wat ts
Graphic Signs of
Authority in Late
Antiquity and the Early
Middle Ages, 300–900
I L D A R G A R I P Z A N OV
1
1
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To Annika, Elvira, and Lenar

Acknowledgements
During my childhood, the first thing I saw waking up every day was a Central Asian
carpet hanging on the wall beside my bed. It was replete with various geometric
shapes and aniconic forms that were very distinct from the natural world and
saturated with colours absent in my immediate surroundings. Every morning, my
eyes browsed through this visual labyrinth and occasionally discovered new patterns
and discerned silhouettes of unfamiliar things. This wall carpet with its interlacing
lines and curves captivated my awakened imagination, and seemed infinite in the
number of shapes and figures it revealed to my contemplative gaze. These early
experiences of visual thinking no doubt contributed to my fascination with late
antique and early medieval aniconic graphic devices, which constitute the main
subject of this study.
The vast amount of surviving visual graphic evidence, most of which remains
unknown outside highly specialized disciplines and some of which has not been
studied at all, meant that it took much effort and external support to complete this
book. The generous funding of the Research Council of Norway (grant no. 217925
for 2012–17) financially supported my research and writing throughout, whilst
the highly supportive academic environment at the Department of Archaeology,
Conservation, and History at the University of Oslo, which I joined in 2012, made
my work on this project a highly productive process. My special thanks to my
departmental fellow historians Klaus Nathaus and Veronique Pouillard for helping
me to see my book project within a much broader perspective, and to Knut
Ødegård and Alf Storrud for their genial assistance during my research trips to
Rome and Istanbul. I also truly enjoyed the cordial atmosphere at the Norwegian
Institute in Rome, my research base during various Italian trips, and I am grateful
to Siri Sande, Anne Nicolaysen, and Manuela Michelloni for their unwavering
support on those occasions.
Visiting fellowships at Balliol College, Oxford and at Clare Hall, Cambridge as
well as a visiting membership at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton
have greatly contributed to the successful completion of this book, by allowing me
to write its various parts in vibrant and highly stimulating scholarly settings. I am
filled with sincere gratitude to Lesley Abrams, Jonathan Shepard, Rosamond
McKitterick, Anna Muthesius, Patrick Geary, Nicola di Cosmo, and Alan Stahl for
their generous support and hospitality during those academic stays. I am also
appreciative of companionship with other visiting historians and medievalists at
the Institute for Advanced Study in the autumn of 2016; social interactions and
conversations with most of them made my research stay there quite a unique
experience. The latter membership provided me with access to visual resources at
the Index of Christian Arts at Princeton University, and I am thankful to Catherine
Fernandez for her expert guidance through its card database, which has yet to be
fully digitized.
viii Acknowledgements
Writing a book navigating through the worlds of late antiquity, early Byzantium,
and the early Middle Ages is a challenging task for a single author, and I have learnt
many positive lessons from scholarly collaboration and the productive exchange
of ideas within the Early Graphicacy network and during its conferences in Oslo,
Rome, and Istanbul. I would like to express special thanks to Caroline Goodson,
Henry Maguire, Patrick Geary, David Ganz, Larry Hurtado, Leslie Brubaker,
Michelle Brown, Ben Tilghman, Michael Squire, Brigitte Bedos-Rezak, Beatrice
Kitzinger, Richard Abdy, Jim Crow, and Chris Entwistle. I have also benefited
from presenting preliminary thoughts and some sections of this book at the Earlier
Middle Ages Seminar at the Institute of Historical Research in London, at the
Oliver Smithies Lecture Series at Oxford University, the Materialität und Medialität
des Geschriebenen Seminar at Heidelberg University, the Late Antique and Medieval
Seminars at Cambridge University, the Making a Mark Conference at Brown
University, and the Medieval Seminar at the Institute for Advanced Study at
Princeton. I am further greatly indebted to John Arnold for his valuable feedback
on the book’s original design and to Henry Maguire, Michelle Brown, Celia Chazelle,
Jinty Nelson, Rosamond McKitterick, Christoph Eger, Caroline Goodson, and
anonymous readers at Oxford University Press for casting an expert eye on its
earlier drafts or selected chapters and providing me with encouraging comments
and constructive criticism.
This book relies on a substantial number of images to make its narrative accessible
to readers, which necessitated the demanding task of acquiring relevant image
permissions from different institutions in Europe and North America, and I am
appreciative of the friendly efforts that Manuela Michelloni, Romy Wyche, and Alf
Storrud invested in communicating on my behalf with relevant collections and
authorities in Italy, France, and Turkey. I am also grateful to Svein Gullbekk and
Alan Stahl for their cordial support and assistance in providing this book with the
photos of relevant coins from their numismatic collections at the University of
Oslo and Princeton University. Furthermore, I am beholden to those museums
and libraries, such as the Metropolitan Museum of Arts in New York, the Walters
Art Museum in Baltimore, and the Herzog August Bibliothek in Wolfenbüttel—to
name just a few—that facilitate current visual and material turns in humanities by
sharing images of their artefacts and manuscripts with researchers and the general
public under unlimited Creative Commons licenses. I hope that more museums
and libraries will choose this path of public service in the future.
Last but not least, I would like to thank Alice Hicklin and Albert Fenton for
their assistance in styling my text in British English and checking its various
technical aspects, as well as the editorial staff at Oxford University Press for their
sterling work in bringing my manuscript to its final form.
Contents
List of Figures xiii
List of Charts xxi
List of Diagrams xxiii
List of Abbreviations xxv
Introduction 1
0.1 Graphic Signs, Graphic Visualization, and Early Graphicacy 3
0.2 Graphic Signs of Authority and Political Culture 8
0.3 Graphic Signs of Authority: Historiographic Trends 13
0.4 Cultural History of Graphic Signs of Authority 19
I . G R A P H I C S I G N S O F D I V I N E AU T H O R I T Y
I N L AT E A N T I Q U I T Y
1. The Origins of Early Christian Graphic Signs 27
1.1 The nomina sacra, Staurogram, and Chi-Rho 27
1.2 Early Christian Authors on Symbolic Meanings of Letters and
Christian Graphic Signs 31
1.3 Protective Seals and the Bruce Codex 35
1.4 ‘Magical’ Characters and their Early Christian Critics 41
1.5 Apotropaic Graphic Devices as a Symptomatic Feature of
Late Antique Culture 47
2. Christograms as Signs of Authority in the Late Roman Empire 50

2.1 Lactantius and Constantine I’s Victorious Sign in 312 50
2.2 Eusebius and the Appropriation of the Chi-Rho as an Imperial
Triumphant Symbol in the 320–40s 54
2.3 The Hierarchy of Christian Signs in the Visual Communication
of Imperial Authority in the Second Half of the Fourth and
Early Fifth Centuries 65
2.4 Christograms as Paradigmatic Christian Symbols at the Turn
of the Fifth Century 77
3. The Sign of the Cross in Late Antiquity 81

3.1 The Early Symbolism of the Cross and the Origins of the Cult
of the Holy Cross 81
3.2 The Sign of the Cross as a Late Antique Symbol of Authority 89
3.3 The Apotropaic Power of the Sign of the Cross in Late Antiquity 99
x Contents
I I . M O N O G R A M M AT I C C U LT U R E I N L AT E A N T I Q U I T Y
4. Monograms, Early Christians, and Late Antique Culture 109
4.1 Late Antique Epigraphic Culture and Monograms
as Epigraphic Devices 112
4.2 The Calendar of 354 and Fourth-Century Roman Aristocratic Culture 118
4.3 Monograms as Protective and Intercessory Devices 124
4.4 The Contemplative Process Involved in Understanding
Monograms and Late Antique Neoplatonism 127
5. Secular Monograms, Social Status, and Authority in the Late

Roman World and Early Byzantium 131
5.1 The Numismatic Monogram of Theodosius II: Monograms as
Signs of Imperial Authority in the Middle and Second Half
of the Fifth Century 133
5.2 Monograms as Signs of Authority on Silverware, Weights, Bricks,
and Consular Diptychs 138
5.3 Monograms as Visual Signs of Social Power, Noble Identity,
and Elevated Status: Rings, Dress Accessories, and Luxury Objects 147
5.4 Monograms as a Symptomatic Feature of Late Antique paideia 154
6. Public Monuments and the Monogrammatic Display of Authority

in the Post-Roman World 160
6.1 From Consular Diptychs to the Monumental Display of Authority:
Juliana Aniana and St Polyeuktos (c.506–27) 160
6.2 Justinian I, Theodora, and a Defensive Response: Sts Sergius
and Bacchus (c.527–32) 167
6.3 The Monogrammatic Display of Imperial Authority in
Hagia Sophia (532–7) 175
6.4 Monumental Monograms and Early Medieval Bishops 186
I I I . G R A P H I C S I G N S O F AU T H O R I T Y
I N E A R LY M E D I E VA L E U RO P E
7. Monogrammatic Culture in Pre-Carolingian Europe 199
7.1 Monograms as Royal Signs of Authority 199
7.2 Monograms as Signs of Social Status and Episcopal Authority
in Pre-Carolingian Europe 205
7.3 Invocational Graphic Devices in Pre-Carolingian Material and
Manuscript Culture 216
7.4 Christograms and the Sign of the Cross in Pre-Carolingian
Material and Manuscript Culture 223
7.5 Late Antique Monogrammatic Culture and the Origins of
Monogrammatic Lettering 235
Contents xi
8. Monogrammatic Revival in the Carolingian World 242

8.1 Monogrammatic Initials in Carolingian Gospel-Books and
Sacramentaries 243
8.2 Royal, Episcopal, and Papal Monograms as Signs of Authority
in the Carolingian World 255
8.3 A Monogrammatic Revival in Carolingian Manuscript Culture
and De inventione litterarum 272
9. The Power of the Cross and Cruciform Devices in the

Carolingian World 286
9.1 The Bible of San Paolo fuori le mura and Cruciform Invocations
in Carolingian Religious Manuscripts 286
9.2 The Sign of the Cross in Manuscript and Material Culture 292
9.3 Hrabanus Maurus’ In honorem sanctae crucis: The Sign of the
Cross as the Main Organizing Principle of Carolingian Graphicacy 303
Conclusion 313
Select Bibliography 321

Index of Manuscripts 359
General Index 363
List of Figures
1.1. Tau-rho and christograms: chi-rho, iota-eta, and iota-chi. 29
1.2. Christian graphic signs on third-century gems, based on Spier,
Late Antique and Early Christian Gems: a) the chi-rho (nos. 112–31);
b–c) the chi-tau (nos. 134–5); d) a monogram comprising
Χ, Ρ, Η, Τ, Υ (no. 133); e) a combination of a tau with an
eight-armed star (no. 137). 33
1.3. Jeu 5 diagram in the Bruce Codex. Oxford, Bodleian Library,
Bruce 96, p. 12 (above), and its graphic model (below). 37
1.4. Occult seals in the Bruce Codex, based on its edition in The Books of Jeu, ed.
Schmidt: a) for the fifty-fifth treasury (p. 39); b) for the fifty-seventh treasury
(p. 40); c) for the fifty-eighth treasury (p. 41); d) for the fifty-sixth treasury
(p. 40); e) for the sixtieth treasury (p. 43). 38
1.5. Baptismal seals in the Bruce Codex, based on its edition in The Books
of Jeu, ed. Schmidt: a) for baptism of water (p. 61); b) for baptism of fire
(p. 63); c) for the baptism of the Holy Spirit (p. 65). 38
1.6. Votive plaques from Water Newton, Cambridgeshire. London, BrM.
© The Trustees of the British Museum. 40
1.7. Magical text from Egypt, fourth century, P.Oslo I 1, c.7. Courtesy
of the University of Oslo Library Papyrus Collection. 43
1.8. Fifth- or sixth-century bronze amulet, Ann Arbor, University of Michigan,
Kelsey Museum of Archaeology, acc. no. 26119. 46
2.1. Obverse of Constantine I’s silver coin-medallion (Ticinum, 315).
The State Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg, inv. no. OH-A-ДР-15266.55
2.2. Dedication medallion in the basilica of Aquileia. 58
2.3. Optatianus, Poem 8, in Wolfenbüttel, HAB, Cod. Guelf. 9 Aug. 4,
fol. 11r. © HAB Wolfenbüttel <http://diglib.hab.de/mss/9-aug-4f/start.htm> 59
2.4. Optatianus, Poem 19, in Wolfenbüttel, HAB, Cod. Guelf. 9 Aug. 4, fol. 4r.
© HAB Wolfenbüttel <http://diglib.hab.de/mss/9-aug-4f/start.htm> 60
2.5. Copper coin of Constantine I (Constantinople, 327–8). London, BrM.
2.6. Silver coin of Constantine II (Siscia, 337–40). Oslo University, Museum
of Cultural History. 62
2.7. Gold glass with Sts Peter and Paul. New York, MMA, acc. no. 16.174.3. 64
2.8. Gold rings with chi-rhos, England, fourth century. London,
BrM, reg. nos. 1983,1003.1 and 1984,1001.1. © The Trustees of
the British Museum. 66
2.9. Mosaic from Hinton St Mary, England. London, BrM,
reg. no. 1965,0409.1. © The Trustees of the British Museum. 67
2.10. Copper coin of Magnentius (Lyons, 352–3). Oslo University, Museum
xiv List of Figures

2.11. Semissis of Aelia Eudoxia (Constantinople, c.400). London, BrM,
2.12. Tremissis of Aelia Eudocia (Constantinople, c.423–43). Princeton
University Numismatic Collection, Department of Rare Books and
Special Collections, Firestone Library. 73
2.13. Chi-rho on the eastern side of the Golden Gate, Constantinople.
Photo by James Crow. 75
2.14. ‘Sarcophagus of Stilicho’, Church of Sant’Ambrogio, Milan.
Norwegian Institute in Rome, H. P. L’Orange Photo Archive. 76
2.15. Frontal side of the Encolpion of Empress Maria (398–407).
Paris, Musée du Louvre, acc. no. OA9523. Photo (C) RMN-Grand
Palais (musée du Louvre)/Droits réservés. 78
2.16. Triple chi-rho from Albenga Baptistery. Graphic drawing. 79
3.1. Floor mosaic in the Basilica of Aquileia. 84
3.2. Solidus of Theodosius II (Constantinople, 420–2). Princeton University
Numismatic Collection, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections,
Firestone Library. 88
3.3. Nummus of Theodosius II, Ae4 (Antioch, 408–50). Oslo University,
Museum of Cultural History. 90
3.4. Upper central side of the triumphant arch in Santa Maria Maggiore, Rome. 93
3.5. Central dome of the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia, Ravenna. 94
3.6. Tremissis of Anthemius (Milan or Rome, 467–72). Oslo University,
3.7. Gold crossbow brooch, second half of the fifth century. New York,
MMA, acc. no. 1995.97. 95
3.8. Early Frankish ring with a cross, c.450–525. New York, MMA,
acc. no. 17.192.229. 96
3.9. Solidus of Heraclius (Constantinople, 638–41). Princeton University
Numismatic Collection, Department of Rare Books and Special
Collections, Firestone Library. 97
3.10. Tremissis of Heraclius (Byzantine Spania, 610–21). Oslo University,
3.11. Early Byzantine gold pendant-cross. New York, MMA, acc. no. 2006.569. 100
3.12. Mould for an ankh amulet from the reign of Amenhotep III
(c.1390–53 bc). New York, MMA, acc. no. 11.215.711. 101
3.13. Funerary stela with an ankh-cross from Akhmim, Egypt. New York,
MMA, acc. no 10.176.29. 102
3.14. Late antique textual amulet from Egypt, fourth or fifth century, P.Oslo I 5.
Courtesy of the University of Oslo Library Papyrus Collection. 103
3.15. Magical text from Egypt, fourth century, P.Oslo I 1, c.8. Courtesy of
the University of Oslo Library Papyrus Collection. 104
4.1. Silver coin (four drachmas) of Alexander III with a monogram as a mintmark
(Babylon, 325–3 bc). Princeton University Numismatic Collection,
Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Firestone Library. 110
List of Figures xv
4.2. Latin and Greek monograms of the Early Imperial period: a) monogram
Vespasianus used as his countermark on the coins of Nero c.88–9; b)
monogram Aurelius on late second- or early third-century balsamaria; c)
on the second-century jasper gem from the Ashmolean Museum; d–g) Greek
monograms on third-century eastern gems, based on Spier, Late Antique and
Early Christian Gems, correspondingly nos. M12, M14, M1, M23. 110
4.3. Third- and fourth-century monograms from Roman catacombs:
a) TP (ICUR, vol. 4, no. 10579); b) Πρῖμα? (ICUR, vol. 4, no. 10579);
c) Ἀγάπη (ICUR, vol. 5, no. 15148.h); d) Avite (ICUR, vol. 5, no. 14752.c);
e) Constans or Constantius (ICUR, vol. 5, no. 13277); f ) Alethius
(ICUR, vol. 3, no. 8748); g) Gaudentia (ICUR, vol. 5, no. 14752.a);
h) Πάστωρ? (ICUR, vol. 1, no. 2058); i) Πρίσκος (ICUR, vol. 4, no. 10713.q). 112
4.4. Fourth- and fifth-century monograms from Roman catacombs:
a) Agape (ICUR, vol. 7, no. 19427.c); b) Petronia? (ICUR, vol. 7, no. 17995);
c) Rusticius and Rufilla (ICUR, vol. 9, no. 25792); d) Navira (ICUR, vol. 5,
no. 14751); e) Eufentine? (ICUR, vol. 2, no. 6060); f ) Annes (ICUR, vol. 9,
no. 24236.a); g) Petrus in pace (ICUR, vol. 2, no. 4516); h) Palma et laurus.114
4.5. Obverse of a late Roman contorniate with the Palma et laurus monogram
in the field. London, BrM, reg. no. R.4814. © The Trustees of the
British Museum. 116
4.6. Marble plaque with the Palma et laurus monogram and the symbol of
the palm leaf accompanying on the inscription of Clodius Ablabius
Reginus from the Flavian Amphitheatre in Rome, mid-fourth century. 117
4.7. Tabula of Eleuteria from Roman catacombs (a. 363). From ICUR,
vol. 1, no. 1426. 117
4.8. Dedication page in the Calendar of 354, in Vatican City, Codex
Vaticanus Barberini lat. 2154 (a. 1620). From Strzygowski,
Die Calenderbilder, fig. III. 119
4.9. Late antique monograms: a–b) from Roman catacombs, Bonifatius
(ICUR, vol. 3, no. 8332.e) and Leonis?, a. 386 (ICUR, vol. 8, no. 21609.c);
c) from silver plates in the Esquiline Treasure, Rome; d) νικᾷ ἡ τύχη τῶν
Πρασίνων monograms from Aphrodisias and Ephesos; e) monogram from
a marble tombstone in Villareggia. 121
4.10. Silver plate from the Esquiline Treasure. London, BrM,
4.11. Acclamatory monogram from Aphrodisias, νικᾷ ἡ τύχη τῶν Πρασίνων.
Photo by Ine Jacobs. 127
5.1. Consecratio panel, upper part. London, BrM, reg. no. 1857,1013.1.
5.2. Copper coin of Theodosius II, Ae4 (Nicomedia, c.445–50).
Oslo University, Museum of Cultural History. 134
5.3. Monogrammatic reverses of late Roman copper coins, Ae4:
a) of Marcian (450–7); b) of Leo I (457–74); c) of Zeno (474–91);
d) of Libius Severus (461–5). Oslo University, Museum of Cultural History,
and Princeton University Numismatic Collection, Department of Rare
Books and Special Collections, Firestone Library. 136
xvi List of Figures

5.4. Pentanummis of Justin II and Sophia (Antioch, 565–78). Princeton
University Numismatic Collection, Department of Rare Books and
Special Collections, Firestone Library. 138
5.5. Late antique weights with monograms: a) copper-alloy weight,
London, BrM, reg. no. OA.821. © The Trustees of the British Museum;
b) early Byzantine glass weight, New York, MMA, acc. no. 81.10.148. 140
5.6. Monograms from early sixth-century consular diptychs: a) from the
consular diptych of Clementinus (Constantinople, 513); b) from
the consular diptych of Orestes (Rome, 530). 143
5.7. Diptych of Areobindus (Constantinople, 506). The State Hermitage
Museum, St Petersburg, inv. no. W-12. 145
5.8. Diptych of Areobindus (Constantinople, 506). Paris, Musée du Louvre,
acc. no. 85-001669 EE. Photo (C) RMN-Grand Palais (musée du
Louvre)/Daniel Arnaudet. 146
5.9. Late antique rings with monograms: a) gold ring of Khan Kubrat
from Malaja Pereshchepina, The State Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg,
inv. no. W-1052; b) silver ring, Baltimore, WAM, acc. no. 57.2104. 148
5.10. Early Byzantine gold bracelet (c.500). New York, MMA,
acc. no. 17.190.2054. 149
5.11. Monograms on sixth-century objects, graphic drawings: a)
from Italy (c.500); b) from the Moselle area; c) crossbow fibula from
Yenikape, Istanbul. Drawing by Arwa Darwich-Eger; d) the central
medallion of the silver plate of kandidatos Nektarios from Staatliche
Museen zu Berlin, mid-sixth century. 150
5.12. Early Byzantine belt buckle, found in Hamas, Syria. Baltimore, WAM,
acc. no. 57.545. 152
5.13. Early Byzantine silver plate (610–13). New York, MMA, acc. no. 52.25.2. 153
5.14. Late antique silver spoon. New York, MMA, acc. no. 2005.39. 155
5.15. Silver spoons from the Lampsakus Treasure, view from above. London,
BrM © The Trustees of the British Museum. 157
5.16. Silver spoon from the Kaper Koraon Treasure, Baltimore, WAM,
acc. no. 57.649. 158
6.1. Pilastri acritani outside San Marco, Venice. 164
6.2. a–b) Ἁγίου Πολυεύκτου monograms on the pilastri acritani; c)
undeciphered monogram on the pilastri acritani; d) monogram on a
capital from St Polyeuktos, reused in the Papadopoli Gardens in Venice. 165
6.3. Monumental monograms from: a) Rome; b) Ravenna; c) Aphrodisias. 165
6.4. Sts Sergius and Bacchus, Istanbul, inner view. 169
6.5. Monumental monograms on the ground level of Sts Sergius and Bacchus:
a) southern bay; b–c) north-western bay; d) north-eastern bay; e–f )
additional columns in southern bay. 171
6.6. ΒΑCΙΛΕΩC and ΙΟΥCΤΙΝΙΑΝΟΥ monograms on the gallery level
of Sts Sergius and Bacchus: a–b) south-eastern side; c–d) southern side; e–f )
south-western side; g–h) north-western side. 173
List of Figures xvii

6.7. Monumental monograms on the gallery level of Sts Sergius and Bacchus:
a–c) ΘΕΟΔΩΡΑC monograms; d) ΑΥΓΟΥCΤΑC monogram. 174
6.8. Hagia Sophia, Istanbul, inner view. 177
6.9. Imperial monograms in Hagia Sophia: a) ΒΑCΙΛΕΩC;
b) ΙΟΥCΤΙΝΙΑΝΟΥ; c) ΑΥΓΟΥCΤΑC; d) ΘΕΟΔΩΡΑC.178
6.10. Theodora’s monumental monograms: 1. in Sts Sergius and Bacchus;
2. in the southern side of Hagia Sophia (2a–c: ground floor; 2d–g: gallery);
3. in the northern side of Hagia Sophia (3a–e: ground floor; 3f–g: gallery);
4. in Hagia Irena; 5. on a capital from the Archaeological Museum of Istanbul,
originally from Hebdoman; 6. in St John of Ephesos; 7. on bronze plaques
in Hagia Sophia. 179
6.11. Fragment of a chancel screen with Constantine’s monogram reused in
Hagia Irene, Istanbul. 181
6.12. Imperial monograms in Hagia Irene, Istanbul: a) ΒΑCΙΛΕΩC;
b) ΙΟΥCΤΙΝΙΑΝΟΥ; c) ΑΥΓΟΥCΤΑC; d) ΘΕΟΔΩΡΑC.184
6.13. Chancel screen in San Clemente, Rome. Norwegian Institute in
Rome, H. P. L’Orange Photo Archive. 187
6.14. Monumental monograms in churches: a–b) Zvart’nots; c–d)
San Vitale, Ravenna; e) Eufrasian Basilica, Poreč; f ) Solin;
g) Grado Baptistery; h) of Bishop Maximian from an impost
fragment in Ravenna; i–j) Archiepiscopal Chapel, Ravenna. 189
6.15. Monogram of Bishop Elias on floor mosaic in the ‘Mausoleum of
St Eufemia’, Grado Cathedral. 191
6.16. Monumental episcopal monograms in the mosaics of the Neonian
Baptistery, Ravenna: a) of Bishop Neon; b–c) of Bishop Maximian. 193
6.17. Archiepiscopal Chapel, Ravenna. © Vanni Archive/Art Resource, NY. 194
7.1. a) Reverse of a quarter-siliqua with Theodoric’s monogram (Ravenna,
493–526), Oslo University, Museum of Cultural History; b) reverse of
a half-siliqua with Athalaric’s monogram, Princeton University Numismatic
Collection, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Firestone
Library; c) reverse of a Lombard gold coin with Perctarit’s monogram,
Oslo University, Museum of Cultural History. 201
7.2. Solidus of Theoderic in the name of Emperor Anastasius with a
monogrammatic mintmark on the reverse (Rome, 491–516). London,
BrM, reg. no. 1867,0101.1014. © The Trustees of the British Museum. 202
7.3. a) Theodebald’s numismatic monogram (548–55); b) design
of the signet-ring of Bertildis (628–38); c) diplomatic monogram
of Clovis II (654). 203
7.4. Merovingian ring, seventh century. New York, MMA, acc. no. 17.191.93. 206
7.5. Horse bit from Visigothic Spain. New York, MMA, acc. no. 47.100.24. 207
7.6. a) Theodemir’s monumental monogram from Pla de Nadal;
b) monumental monograms from Santa María de Lara at Quintanilla
de las Viñas; c) monumental monograms of Justinian II from the Land
Wall of Constantinople. 209
xviii List of Figures

7.7. Lower frontal part of Maximian’s throne, Ravenna. Norwegian Institute
in Rome, H. P. L’Orange Photo Archive. 210
7.8. Early Byzantine copper-alloy polycandelon. London, BrM,
7.9. Monograms on early medieval objects from Italy: a) on the ‘Pegasus’
lamp from Crypta Balbi, Rome; b) on the strap-end from Castel Trosino,
grave 126; c) on the strap-end from Castel Trosino, grave 9. 213
7.10. Copper-alloy belt buckle from Visigothic Spain, seventh century.
New York, MMA, acc. no. 66.152.2. 214
7.11. a) Ostrogothic copper coin with the monogram of Ravenna, Oslo
University, Museum of Cultural History; b) the reverse of a Merovingian
silver coin from Clermont with the urban monogram ARV[ernum],
Princeton University Numismatic Collection, Department of Rare Books
and Special Collections, Firestone Library. 215
7.12. Early graffito from late antique Aphrodisias. Photo by Angelos Chaniotis. 217
7.13. Early Byzantine gold pendant with the ΦΩΣ–ΖΩΗ monogram.
New York, MMA, acc. no. 17.190.1660. 218
7.14. a) Ora pro me device from St Petersburg, National Library of Russia,
Lat.Q.v.I.3, fol. 192r; b) Ora pro me device from Würzburg, UB,
M.p.th.f.68, fol. 170v: c) Amen device from Wolfenbüttel, HAB, Cod.
Guelf. 64 Weiss, fol. 67v; d) Θεοτόκε βοήθει monogram on the
strap-end from Mersin, Cilicia; e) Θεοτόκε βοήθει τῶ σῶ δούλω device
from early Byzantine seals; f ) ΜΙΧΑΗΛ monogrammatic tattoo on
a mummified body from et-Tereif, Sudan; g) Η ΑΓΙΑ ΜΑΡΙΑ
monograms on icons from Mount Sinai. 219
7.15. Bottom of the ewer of Zenobios. New York, MMA, acc. no. 17.190.1704. 222
7.16. Sarcophagus of Bishop Theodorus from Ravenna, fifth century.
7.17. Carmen figuratum of Venantius Fortunatus, late sixth century, from
Venantius Fortunatus, Opera poetica, ed. Leo, p. 116. 226
7.18. Marble decoration in Sts Sergius and Bacchus, Istanbul. 227
7.19. Apse mosaic in San Vitale, Ravenna. 228
7.20. Mosaic from the presbytery of San Vitale. 230
7.21. Monogrammatic cross in Paris, BnF, Ms. lat. 10439, fol. 1v. 231
7.22. a–b) Reverse of copper and silver coins of Justinian I from Ravenna
(c.555–65), Oslo University, Museum of Cultural History; c) reverse
of a Merovingian tremissis (Veuves, c.620–40), Princeton University
Numismatic Collection, Department of Rare Books and Special
Collections, Firestone Library. 231
7.23. Monogrammatic initials and lettering from late antique manuscripts:
a–b) Paris, BnF, Ms. lat. 12097, fols 89v and 97v; c–e) in the palimpsest
from León, Archivio Cathedralico, Ms. 15; f ) Paris, BnF, Ms.
lat. 17226, fol. 91r; g) Uppsala, Universitetsbibliothek, Sign. DG.1. 232
7.24. Codex Valerianus, Munich, BSB, Clm. 6224, fol. 202r. 233
List of Figures xix

7.25. Paris, BnF, Ms. lat. 1625, fol. 1v. 235
7.26. Christi initial in the Echternach Gospels, BnF, Ms. lat. 9389, fol. 19r. 238
7.27. LIBer generationis initial in the Echternach Gospels, BnF, Ms. lat. 9389,
fol. 20r. 239
8.1. LIber generationis initial in Wolfenbüttel, HAB, Cod. Guelf.
16 Aug. 2°, fol. 5r. © HAB Wolfenbüttel <http://diglib.hab.de/mss/
16-aug-2f/start.htm>244
8.2. IN principio initial in London, BL, Egerton Ms. 768, fol. 63r. 245
8.3. Initials in St Gallen, SB, Cod. Sang. 348: a) Vere dignum (p. 367);
b) Te igitur (p. 368). 248
8.4. Vere dignum initial in Berlin, SBB, Ms. Phill. 1667, fol. 103r. 250
8.5. Vere dignum and Te igitur initials in Autun, BM, Ms. 19 bis, fols 8v–9r.
© IRHT. 251
8.6. Te igitur initial in Le Mans, BM, Ms. 77, fol. 9v–10r. © IRHT. 254
8.7. Inhabited initials in St Gallen, SB, Cod. Sang. 731: a) p. 113; b) p. 111. 258
8.8. Carolingian diplomatic monograms, based on DK: a) of Charlemagne;
b) of Louis the Pious in Aquitaine (808–14); c) of Louis the Pious in
Aachen (814–40); d) of Lothar I; e) of Pippin I of Aquitaine; f ) of Odo;
g) of Rudolf; h) of Louis IV; i) Lothar III. 260
8.9. Scribal colophon in Valenciennes, BM, Ms. 59, fol. 181v. © IRHT. 261
8.10. a) Monogram of Benedict of Aniane in Munich, BSB, Clm. 28118, fol. 18r;
b) East Frankish diplomatic monograms in St Gallen, SB,
Cod. Sang. 397, p. 51; c) monograms of Bishop Hanto in Munich,
BSB, Clm. 23631, fol. 245r. 263
8.11. Introductory monograms in Los Angeles, J. Paul Getty Museum,
Ms. Ludwig II 1, fol. 3v. 266
8.12. a) Greek monogram of Charlemagne on Ravennate coins (792/3–814);
b) monogram of Duke Sico on Beneventan coins; c) ROMA monogram
on ninth-century papal coins; d) monogram of Pope Nicholas I
(858–67) on papal coinage; e) epistolary monogram of Bishop John
(a. 827/8) from ChLA, vol. 58, no. 14. 267
8.13. Fragmentary funerary epitaph of Bishop Lopicenus from Modena.
8.14. Monograms of Pope Paschal I in Santa Prassede, Rome. 269
8.15. Monograms of Pope Leo IV on epigraphic tabula ansata from
Civitavecchia (a. 854): a) left side; b) right side. Norwegian Institute
in Rome, H. P. L’Orange Photo Archive. 270
8.16. Monogram of Bishop Handegis from the Cathedral of Pola.
8.17. a) urban monogram (Dorobernia civitas) on the pennies of Canterbury
during the episcopate of Archbishop Wulfred (805–32); b) urban
monogram of London on pennies of Alfred the Great; c–d) box monograms
from London, BL, Cotton Ms. Vespasian A. I., fols 153r–v; e) monogram of
xx List of Figures
Sendelenus from Lyons, BM, Ms. 452, fol. 276r; f ) monogram of Martinus
from Paris, BnF, Ms. lat. 1603, fol. 192r; g) monogrammatic initial of
STORAX from Paris, BnF, Ms. lat. 9332, fol. 246v. 272
8.18. Marginal cruciform monograms in Paris, BnF, Ms. lat. 7906, fol. 80r. 274
8.19. Diagram with a central monogram in St Gallen, SB, Cod. Sang. 237, p. 63. 276
8.20. Scribal monograms from Vatican City, BAV, Reg. lat. 438, fol. 31v. 277
8.21. Preserved monogrammatic section of the De inventione litterarum in
St Gallen, SB, Cod. Sang. 876, p. 281. 279
8.22. Monograms of the De inventione litterarum in the 1606 edition of Goldast. 280
8.23. Monogrammatic devices in Wolfenbüttel, HAB, Cod. Guelf. 14 Weiss.:
a) monogrammatic initial and lettering on fol. 221r; b) monogrammatic
initial on fol. 18r; c) monogrammatic initial on fol. 235r; d) the ΦΩΣ–ΖΩΗ
monogram on fol. 23v; e) Solomon’s monogram and sign on fol. 247r.
© HAB Wolfenbüttel <http://diglib.hab.de/mss/14-weiss/start.htm> 283
9.1. Cruciform devices from Carolingian manuscripts: a) Würzburg, UB,
M.p.th.f.19, fol. 67v; b) Munich, BSB, Clm. 6329, fol. 192r; c) Bamberg,
Staatsbibliothek, Msc. Patr. 61, fol. 103r; d) Rome, Abbazia di San Paolo
f.l.m., Biblia, fol. 1r. 287
9.2. Two paired monograms on the ‘Beautiful Doors’ in Hagia Sophia,
Istanbul: a) Χριστὲ βοήθει; b) Μιχαὴλ δεσπότῃ. Photo by Joe Glynias. 290
9.3. Te igitur in Paris, BnF, Ms. Nouv. Acq. lat. 1589, fol. 10r. 291
9.4. Cruciform liturgical monograms from Paris, BnF, Ms. lat. 12272,
fol. 104v. Graphic drawing. 293
9.5. Cross page in Heidelberg, UB, Cod. Sal. X.12a, fol. 1v. 296
9.6. Graphic devices in Carolingian manuscripts: a) IHS XPS monogram
from Tours manuscripts; b) IOHANNIS monogram from Paris,
BnF, Ms. lat. 266, fol. 172r; c) cruciform device from Leiden,
Universitetsbibliotheek, VLO.41, fol. 19v; d) crosses from Munich,
BSB, Clm. 6270a, fol. 154r. 298
9.7. Technical signs in Schaffhausen, Stadtbibliothek, Ms. 78, fol. 1v. 300
9.8. T–O map in Munich, BSB, Clm. 6250, fol. 208r. 301
9.9. Denier of Louis the Pious (Dorestad, 822–40). Oslo University, Museum
9.10. Carmen figuratum of Joseph the Scot, from Iosephi Scotti carmina,
VI, ed. Dümmler, p. 159. 305
9.11. Acrostic poem from Paris, BnF, Ms. lat. 12262, fol. 3r. Graphic drawing. 306
9.12. Poem 28 of In honorem sanctae crucis in Lyons, BM, Ms. 597, fol. 24v.
© IRHT. 309
9.13. Poem 11 of In honorem sanctae crucis in Lyons, BM, Ms. 597, fol. 7v.
© IRHT. 310
List of Charts
2.1. Chi-rhos and tau-rhos on datable Roman Christian inscriptions
from the 320s to 430s (absolute numbers). 63
2.2. Chi-rhos and tau-rhos on datable Roman Christian inscriptions from
the 320s to 430s (percentage). 63
2.3. Percentage of datable Roman Christian inscriptions with chi-rhos
from the 320s to 400s. 64
2.4. The use of an alpha and omega with christograms on datable Roman
Christian inscriptions from the 320s to 400s (absolute numbers). 69
2.5. The use of an alpha and omega with christograms on datable
Roman Christian inscriptions from the 320s to 400s (percentage). 69
2.6. The use of crosses and tau-rhos on datable funerary inscriptions
from Zoora from the 340s to the 490s. 71
2.7. The use of tau-rhos on datable funerary inscriptions from Zoora
from the 340s to the 490s. 72
3.1. The use of crosses on datable late antique funerary inscriptions
from Zoora (absolute numbers). 85
3.2. The use of crosses on datable late antique funerary inscriptions
from Zoora (percentage). 85
6.1. The imperial ancestry of Anicius Olybrius Junior. 161
List of Diagrams
6.1. The plan of Sts Sergius and Bacchus. 170

6.2. The ground level of Hagia Sophia. 182
6.3. The gallery level of Hagia Sophia. 183
List of Abbreviations
AB Art Bulletin
acc. no. accession number
AJA American Journal of Archaeology
ANF Alexander Roberts et al., eds. Ante-Nicene Fathers: The Writings of
the Fathers Down to a.d. 325, 10 vols (Peabody, 1994)
BAV Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana
BL British Library
BM Bibliothèque municipale
BnF Bibliothèque nationale de France
BrM British Museum
BSB Bayerische Staatsbibliothek
BZ Byzantinische Zeitschrift
CBC Alfred R. Bellinger, Philip Grierson, and Michael Hendy.
The Catalogue of the Byzantine Coins in the Dumbarton Oaks
Collections and in the Whittemore Collection, 5 vols (Washington,
DC, 1966–2006)
CCSL Corpus Christianorum, Series Latina
CCSM Corpus Christianorum, Series Medievalis
ChLA Robert Marichal and Albert Bruckner, eds. Chartae Latinae
Antiquiores, 110 vols (Zurich, 1954–).
CLA Elias Avery Lowe. Codices Latini Antiquiores, A Palaeographical
Guide to Latin Manuscripts prior to the Ninth Century, 12 vols
(Oxford, 1934–72)
DK Ferdinand Lot et al., eds. Diplomata Karolinorum: Recueil de
reproductions en fac-similé des actes originaux des souverains
carolingiens conservés dans les archives et bibliothèques de France,
9 vols (Paris, 1936–49)
DOP Dumbarton Oaks Papers
Ecclesiastical Silver Ecclesiastical Silver Plate in Sixth-Century Byzantium, ed. Susan
Plate A. Boyd and Marlia Mundell Mango (Washington, DC, 1992)
EDB Epigraphic Database Bari. http://www.edb.uniba.it.
EDDB Erzbischöfliche Diözesan- und Dombibliothek
EHR English Historical Review
EME Early Medieval Europe
FS Frühmittelalterliche Studien
Graphic Signs Graphic Signs of Identity, Faith, and Power in Late Antiquity and the
Early Middle Ages, ed. Ildar Garipzanov et al. (Turnhout, 2017)
Graphische Symbole Graphische Symbole in mittelalterlichen Urkunden: Beiträge zur
diplomatischen Semiotik, ed. Peter Rück (Sigmaringen, 1996)
HAB Herzog August Bibliothek
ICUR Inscriptiones Christianae urbis Romae septimo saeculo antiquiores,
nova series, ed. Angelo Silvagni et al.
xxvi List of Abbreviations

Intelligible Beauty ‘Intelligible Beauty’: Recent Research on Byzantine Jewellery, ed. Chris
Entwistle and Noël Adams (London, 2010)
inv. no. inventory number
ICA Index of Christian Art
JAC Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum
JLA Journal of Late Antiquity
JRA Journal of Roman Archaeology
JRS The Journal of Roman Studies
JÖB Jahrbuch der Österreichisches Byzantinistik
Katalog Bernhard Bischoff. Katalog der festländischen Handschridten des
neunten Jahrhunderts (mit Ausnahme der wisigotischen), 3 vols
(Wiesbaden, 1998–2014)
KM Wilhelm Koehler and Florentine Mütherich. Die karolingischen
Miniaturen, 8 vols (Berlin and Wiesbaden, 1930–2013).
MEC Philip Grierson and Mark Blackburn. Medieval European Coinage:
With a Catalogue of the Coins in the Fitzwilliam Museum,
Cambridge, vol. 1, The Early Middle Ages (5th–10th Centuries)
(Cambridge, 1986)
MGH Monumenta Germaniae Historica
ML Morgan Library
MMA Metropolitan Museum of Art
NPNF I Philip Schaff, ed. Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, 1st Series, 14 vols
(Peabody, 2012)
NPNF II Philip Schaff and Henry Wace, eds. Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers,
2nd Series, 14 vols (Peabody, 2012)
ÖNB Österreichische Nationalbibliothek
PL Patrologia Latina, ed. Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris,
1844–64).
reg. no. registration number
RIC Robert Mattingly et al., eds. The Roman Imperial Coinage, 10 vols
(London, 1923–94)
SB Stiftsbibliothek
SBB Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin
Sign and Design Sign and Design: Script as Image in Cross-Cultural Perspective
(300–1600 ce), ed. Brigitte M. Bedos-Rezak and Jeffrey Hamburger
(Washington, DC, 2016)
Signum crucis Erich Dinkler. Signum crucis: Aufsätze zum Neuen Testament und zur
christlichen Archäologie (Tübingen, 1967)
UB Universitätsbibliothek
WAM Walters Art Museum
Introduction
At the end of the fourth century, a Christian cleric in North Africa made a seemingly
puzzling statement: ‘By that sign of the cross every Christian act is described (describi-
tur): to do good in Christ and to hold fast resolutely to him, to hope for heaven,
to avoid profaning the sacrament.’1 This wording sounds paradoxical: how can a
graphic sign (signum), made of two crossing lines and void of words or even letters,
describe so many Christian beliefs, norms, and emotions? We could of course opt
to discard this statement, deeming it to be the clumsy oxymoron of an unsophisti-
cated Christian preacher. But the passage in question in fact came from the quill of
one of the most eloquent and incisive Christian intellectuals in the first millennium
ad, none less than Augustine of Hippo, who evidently believed strongly that the
graphic sign of the cross could encapsulate a plethora of abstract ideas.
Augustine was not alone in his belief that graphic signs had a special meaning.
Around the same time Quintus Aurelius Symmachus, a pagan Roman with a noble
pedigree stretching back to the Republican era, commented on the meaning of the
personal monogram he used on seals in a letter sent to an old friend. Symmachus
wrote that, in the case of this type of late antique signum,2 his ‘name was presented
more to be understood (intellegi) than to be read (legi)’.3 Authored by a person
with an entirely different religious and social background to Augustine, the passage
expresses a conviction somewhat similar to the above dictum: viewing a graphic
sign involves a form of communication involving mental comprehension that is
nevertheless distinct from reading. More than a century and a half after Symmachus’
letter, an early Byzantine court attendant in Constantinople, Paul the Silentiary,
appears to have been certain that graphic signs of this type were worth many words.
In his poetic panegyric to Justinian I, Paul mentions an imperial monogram carved
on the templon screen in Hagia Sophia, on which ‘the carver’s tool has incised one
character (γράμμα) that means many words (πολύμυθον), for it combines the
names of the Empress and Emperor’.4
1 Augustine, De doctrina Christiana, II. 150, ed. and trans. Green, pp. 128–9: ‘Quo signo crucis
omnis actio Christiana describitur: bene operari in Christo et ei perseveranter inhaerere, sperare cae-
lestia, sacramenta non profanare.’ My translation for the first clause in this passage. On the date of this
work, see Augustine, De doctrina Christiana, ed. and trans. Green, pp. ix–xxiii.
2 On monograms defined as signa in this period, see Fink, ‘Neue Deutungsvorschläge’, p. 86.
3 ‘quo nomen meum magis intellegi quam legi promptum est’, Quintus Aurelius Symmachus,
Epistolae, II. 12, Symmachi opera, ed. Seeck, p. 46.
4 ‘γράμμα χαράσσει / ἡ γλυφὶς ἓν πολύμυθον ἀολλίζει γὰρ ἀνάσσης / οὔνομα καὶ βασιλῆος’, Paulus
Silentiarius, Descriptio Sanctae Sophiae, 713–15, ed. de Stefani, p. 49. The translation is slightly modi-
fied from that found in Mango, ed., The Art of the Byzantine Empire, p. 87.
2 Graphic Signs of Authority
Writing in the early fourth-century city of Trier in the northern part of the late
Roman world, the Christian rhetorician Lactantius described another graphic
sign, a divine monogram, which appeared to Emperor Constantine in a vision
before the decisive battle of his career near Rome in 312. In his dream, the Roman
emperor was told to have this graphic sign of God (caeleste signum dei) inscribed
onto the shields of his soldiers, as a kind of divine armour. He did as advised
and won the ensuing battle.5 An anonymous religious practitioner in fourth- or
fifth-century Roman Egypt expressed a similar belief in the power of graphic signs
while exhorting his readers in a practical manual—which modern scholars have
called ‘magical’—to inscribe (γράψον) seven graphic characters (χαρακτῆρας) on a
seven-leafed sprig. According to this author, a sprig inscribed with such graphic
signs would become ‘the body’s greatest protective charm, by which all are made
subject, and seas and rocks tremble, and daimons avoid the characters’ divine
power (χαρακτήρων τὴν θείαν ἐνέργειαν)’.6
These five authors, writing in different parts of the late antique world with
diverse social and religious backgrounds, convey two aspects of their cultural uni-
verse that are essential to this book: first, that certain graphic signa were capable of
encapsulating abstract ideas, referential information, or transcendent powers in a
very efficient manner, and secondly, that despite being often described using terms
associated with the act of writing, this form of communication was perceived as
profoundly different from the latter. This visual form of social communication
constitutes the subject of this book, which examines how graphic signs of the kind
described above—such as the cross sign, christograms, monograms, and occult
graphic characters—represented and communicated secular and divine authority,
and how they were understood to relate to, and interact with, the supernatural
world in the late antique Mediterranean and early medieval Europe, from approxi-
mately the fourth to ninth centuries ad.
There is, of course, nothing new about the use of abstract graphic signs as an
aspect of social communication. As Genevieve von Petzinger points out, our early
Palaeolithic predecessors were already inscribing them onto different surfaces, and
early humans employed thirty-two specific geometrical signs at different sites in
Europe, dated to the period between approximately 40,000 and 10,000 years ago.7
Yet because of the limited evidence regarding their usage, alongside the many other
signs that were inscribed or drawn in subsequent centuries, the actual meanings of
such elusive prehistoric signs remain arduously debated. In contrast, more precise
knowledge of the specific material, historical, cultural, and religious contexts in
which the graphic signs discussed in this book occurred affords us a much better
understanding of their meanings—for the people who created and employed them
in everyday and ritual settings—and of their wider societal functions. Most of
these signs emerged in the first centuries of the first millennium ad, and their
5 Lactantius, De mortibus persecutorum, 44. 5–6, ed. Städele, pp. 200–2.

6 Papyri Graecae Magicae, I. 262–75, ed. Preisendenz and Henrichs, vol. 1, pp. 14–17; the English
translation is slightly modified from that in The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation, ed. Betz, p. 10.
7 von Petzinger, The First Signs.
Introduction 3
growing popularity in late antiquity and their modified usage in the early Middle
Ages reflected changing socio-political, religious, and cultural views, perceptions,
and assumptions. Such perceptions must have been shared by much of the popu-
lace, but also specifically by members of distinct social groups, in the years that
witnessed the profound transformation of the Graeco-Roman world and the
formation of medieval Europe. The history of such graphic signs is therefore capable
of providing both a valuable historical insight into that process of transformation,
as well as a more fundamental understanding of their operating mode across
different cultures and eras.
0.1. G R A P H I C S I G N S , G R A P H I C V I S U A L I Z AT I O N ,
A N D E A R LY G R A P H I C A C Y
The aforementioned aspects of late antique visual culture—namely the communi-

cative potential of graphic signs and their difference from writing systems in terms
of their mode of operation—fit remarkably well with the new theoretical model of
visual communication promoted by modern research in the fields of visual studies
(visual literacy), information visualization, and graphicacy, which have been gaining
in academic popularity from around the turn of the twenty-first century.
The interdisciplinary field of visual studies originated in the 1950–60s and
reached maturity in the 1990s, marked by collaboration between art historians,
specialists in visual culture, and cognitive psychologists, with particular focus on
the connection between mechanisms of visual perception and visual art, and on
the role of visual images in social communication.8 On the one hand, such studies
have emphasized that ‘visualcy’ (to employ their argot) should not be dichotom-
ized with literacy. As Tom Mitchell has stressed, ‘all the so-called visual media
are mixed or hybrid formations, combining sound and sight, text and image’.9 To
make this point clearer, he has introduced the notion of ‘imagetext’.10 Mitchell’s
observations about the hybrid nature of visual media are especially relevant to the
graphic signs discussed in this book, which operated as intermediaries between the
Word and Image, and conveyed abstract information and concepts.
On the other hand, such studies have pointed out that the process of seeing is
profoundly different from reading. In other words, ‘visualcy’ depends on a specific
set of abilities and experiences, and it may increase in significance in certain histor-
ical and social contexts—a phenomenon referred to as a ‘pictorial turn’.11 Having
started with the German School of Gestalt psychology, ever-growing academic
research into the cognitive mechanisms involved in the process of seeing has
shown the unique nature of visual perception, dubbed by the famous American art
8 See e.g. Arnheim, Art and Visual Perception; Mitchell, Picture Theory; Messaris, Visual ‘Literacy’;
Elkins, Visual Studies; Elkins, ed., Visual Literacy. This list is by no means comprehensive.
9 Mitchell, ‘Visual Literacy’, p. 15.
10 Mitchell, Picture Theory, pp. 95 and 160–1. Mitchell’s term is different to the more restrictive
term ‘iconotext’ as understood by Nerlich, ‘Qu’est-ce qu’un iconotexte?’, pp. 255–302.
11 Mitchell, Picture Theory, p. 13; Mitchell, ‘Visual Literacy’, pp. 15–16.
theorist Rudolf Arnheim (1904–2007) as ‘visual thinking’. In the monograph that

appeared under this title in 1969, Arnheim challenged the traditional juxtaposition
of visual perception—as connected to concrete information and thought—with
imageless rational reasoning, and asserted that ‘[i]n the perception of shape lie the
beginnings of concept formation.’12 Various studies in cognitive psychology in
the past fifty years have largely confirmed his theoretical insights. Summarizing
empirical research in the field, Liza K. Libby and Richard P. Elbach stated in 2013
that existing evidence has shown ‘that imagery can function to represent abstract
ideas, in addition to functioning to represent concrete information,’ and that
‘perhaps “imageless thought” is not imageless after all, but rather involves noncon-
scious imagery.’13 These recent findings have thus confirmed an intuitive insight
of the great physicist Albert Einstein (1879–1955), who said that ‘[t]he words of
the language, as they are written or spoken, do not seem to play any role in my
mechanism of thought. The psychical entities which seem to serve as elements in
thought are certain signs and more or less clear images which can be “voluntarily”
reproduced and combined.’14
Modern studies directed towards graphic designers have further corroborated
the validity of Arnheim’s and Einstein’s statements, with reference to signs, graphs,
and other abstract graphic forms employed in the field of information visualization—
meaning ‘a graphical representation of some data or concepts’.15 Drawing on recent
research in cognitive psychology, one of the leading authors in the field, Colin
Ware, states that the process of visual thinking involved in graphic visualization is
to a large extent determined by our visual ‘hardware’, and by the way the human
brain processes and transforms visual stimuli. Hence, the basic principles of graphic
visualization are of a sensory, and therefore universal, nature, occurring across
different human cultures. Some of these principles are vitally important to achieve
a proper understanding of the ways in which graphic signs were employed and
organized in late antiquity and the early Middle Ages, and are consequently listed
here briefly.
The first relevant principle is that an important target object or data should
be represented by graphic elements that are visually distinct from less significant
surroundings. This can be achieved by a difference either in shape or in size, both
of which produce a pop-up effect that allows our vision to find an important object
easily in order to process related graphic information at a glance. The pop-up effect
is significant in information visualization, as research into visual cognition has shown
that the capacity of our visual working memory is limited to a small number of
simple visual objects and patterns: without activating that perceptual effect import-
ant graphic information can be easily overlooked.16 This sensory principle was
12 Arnheim, Visual Thinking, p. 27.

13 ‘The Role of Visual Imagery’, p. 161.
14 Einstein’s letter to Jacques Hadamard, June 17, 1944, in Hadamard, An Essay, p. 142, with a
slight correction in Calaprice, ed., The Ultimate Quotable Einstein, which can be corroborated by an
earlier draft of the text in the Einstein Archive Online, no. 1-146.
15 Ware, Visual Thinking, p. 20.
16 Ware, Information Visualization, pp. 14, 140, and 394; and Ware, Visual Thinking, pp. 24–32.
Introduction 5
repeatedly employed by the producers of the graphic signs under discussion in this
book, and appears across various late antique and early medieval material media—
for example, when christograms and the sign of the cross were carved on early
Christian epitaphs in late Roman catacombs, when occult characters were inscribed
on ‘magical’ papyri or metal and stone amulets, or when complicated monograms
were drawn in late antique and early medieval manuscripts. Such intentional treat-
ment of these graphic signs reflected both their significance and their operational
value in the eyes of their producers and viewers. Connectedness is another funda-
mental Gestalt principle, meaning that ‘connecting different graphic objects by
lines is a very powerful way of expressing that there is some relationship between
them’.17 This principle is employed in the production of late antique and early
medieval monograms, whereby phonetic characters are connected within a single
graphic structure to indicate their joint use in a hidden word or words. A third
sensory principle is that visual perception is highly sensitive to perfectly vertical
and horizontal lines, which makes them a highly efficient tool in the graphic
organization of information.18 This factor partly explains the popularity of the sign
of the cross—composed precisely of such lines—across different cultures and
times, but in the late antique Mediterranean in particular. Even more pertinent to
our discussion is the perceptual principle according to which human eyes tend
to see a closed contour as an object. This principle is highly important for visual
communication since ‘the object metaphor is persuasive in the way we think about
information, no matter how abstract’.19 As a result, closed contours such as a circle
and square are commonly used to visualize various concepts.20 That the first late
antique monograms were of a square shape is highly significant in this regard, as is
the fact that circles in the form of wreaths or medallions often framed such mono-
grams, as well as christograms and the sign of the cross.
This use of object-like graphic forms as proxies for concepts and abstract ideas
stems from the known ability of the human brain to link certain pieces of visual
information to certain pieces of verbal information, in what neuroscientists call ‘cell
assembly’ and the ‘neuronal network’.21 Thus, seeing certain objects momentarily
activates connected parts of verbal memory.22 More importantly for my argu-
ment, modern research in cognitive psychology suggests that certain visual signs,
including religious symbols, become cognitively bound to a particular non-visual
cluster of concepts: viewing religious symbols such as the cross or a christogram
causes an automatic and rapid activation of related concepts in the human mind.23
Through their power to rapidly invoke nonvisual information from the long-term
memory, such graphic signs thus function as a form of memory extension.24 Such
symbols can also produce certain associations and emotional responses from their
viewers, an ability that is highly important for commercial usage of modern brand
17 Ware, Information Visualization, p. 182. 18 Ware, Visual Thinking, p. 57.

19 Ware, Information Visualization, p. 293.
20 Ware, Information Visualization, pp. 186–7 and 222–4.
21 Stock, Gajsar, and Güntürkün, ‘The Neuroscience of Memory’, pp. 373–5.
22 Ware, Information Visualization, pp. 311–15.
23 Ware, Visual Thinking, pp. 124–5 and 168–9. 24 Ware, Information Visualization, p. 377.
logos—such as the Coca-Cola, Nike, or Adidas logos, each estimated to be worth

billions of dollars. Early Christian graphic signs prompted even stronger emotional
responses from their Christian viewers, especially when they appeared in natural
settings or visions, or were employed in ritual performance. Modern companies
invest vast amounts of money in advertisement and other forms of branding to
make their logos recognizable, encouraging positive emotional responses to them
in the minds of their potential consumers, and thus providing emotional leverage
to the brand owners. In the 1990s some brands even began to promote themselves
as a way of life, a set of values, an idea, or an attitude embodied by the products
marked with their logos.25 In a different manner, early Christians were familiarized
with their religion’s graphic signs through liturgy and material settings, while
incessant comments in early Christian texts ensured that such signs were bound in
the minds of their readers to major Christological and ethical tenets, and the cor-
responding way of life and attitudes. Thus, for example, in the passage mentioned
above in this introduction, Augustine propagated the sign of the cross to his readers
as the paradigmatic visual symbol of Christianity encouraging the faithful to believe
in Christ and salvation and to act accordingly.26 In the Christian world of late
antiquity such graphic signs began to be actively employed as quasi-logos, not only
in religious but also in socio-political interactions. Through this fusion of religious
and political meanings, Christian graphic signs became salient visual features of
the contemporary political landscape.
A more contextualized discussion of christograms and monograms takes us
from the sensory principles of graphic visualization to arbitrary visual symbols and
aspects of graphic representation that are culturally specific and historically limited.
In most cases, however, graphic signs employ both sensory and arbitrary codes of
graphic composition.27 For instance, the chi-rho sign uses the principle of connected-
ness, but the original choice of the letters chi and rho did not relate to any sensory
principle, and was defined by the cultural settings of the classical world.
Whereas in visual studies (especially in the US) visual perception and visual
communication have been discussed with reference to ‘visual thinking’, ‘visual lit-
eracy’, and ‘information visualization’, in education studies (particularly in the
UK) the unique nature of these phenomena have been described with reference to
‘graphicacy’. This concept appeared at roughly the same time as Arnheim’s concept
of visual thinking. In the mid-1960s, the British scholars W. G. V. Balchin and
Alice M. Coleman coined graphicacy as a term to describe the intellectual skill
required both to understand visual aids such as maps, photographs, charts, and
graphs, and to communicate using these tools. Graphicacy, they stated, therefore
needed to be taught in school alongside literacy and numeracy.28 In tandem with
the rise of the field of visual studies from the 1990s, graphicacy became an
25 For more details, see Klein, No Logo, especially pp. 3–124.

26 De doctrina Christiana, II. 150, ed. and trans. Green, pp. 128–9.
27 Ware, Information Visualization, pp. 9–12.
28 Balchin and Coleman, ‘Graphicacy—the Fourth “Ace” ’; Balchin and Coleman, ‘Graphicacy
Should Be the Fourth Ace’.
Introduction 7
established concept in educational psychology,29 and consequently entered English

dictionaries. Thus, The Merriam–Webster Dictionary defines graphicacy as ‘the
ability to understand, use, or generate graphic images (as maps and diagrams)’,
while The Oxford English Dictionary describes it as ‘knowledge of or skill in the
use of graphical information; the ability to produce or interpret diagrams, maps,
tables, etc.’ In contrast to these established definitions, Xenia Danos has recently
suggested a much broader interpretation of graphicacy as ‘the ability to commu-
nicate through still visual images such as graphs, maps, diagrams, symbols and
drawings’, and has argued for its similarity to the category of visual literacy com-
monly used in the US.30
A strong focus amongst scholars of graphicacy on maps and diagrams has also
led to an emphasis on the crucial role of this intellectual skill in the communica-
tion of spatial information, which in turn has connected graphicacy studies to
modern research on visuospatial cognition31—research that deals with both the
cognitive mechanism involved in coding spatial relations of the real world through
visual aids such as maps, diagrams, and graphs, and with the use of such forms of
spatial representations within thinking in general.32 Cross-disciplinary fertilization
has led to graphicacy being defined not only as an intellectual skill but also as a
major form of communication on a par with oracy (orality), literacy, and numeracy.
Thus, as early as 1999, a South African specialist in education studies, Pamela
Dianne Wilmot, stated: ‘Graphicacy is a form of communication in that it utilizes
some form of symbolic language to convey information about spatial relation-
ships. . . . [I]t requires that the reader/creator of graphic language possesses concep-
tual knowledge of the phenomena represented in the graphic representation, as
well as perceptual abilities and an understanding of spatial concepts.’33
Modern research has further shown that spatial concepts are highly relevant to
the process of abstract thinking. Thus, cognitive linguists have pointed to the
paramount importance of spatial metaphors in our language,34 while the empirical
research of cognitive psychologists has demonstrated that people systematically
attribute specific spatial relations to abstract concepts such as hope, success, and
respect.35 Graphicacy, therefore, can be defined as a form of communication,
related to the graphic visualization of information and based on the capacity of
29 See, for example, Boardman, ‘Graphicacy in the Curriculum’; Boardman, Graphicacy and
Geography Teaching; Boardman, ‘Graphicacy Revisited’; Weiner, ‘A Test of Graphicacy’. For a more
detailed overview of this kind of research, see Danos, Graphicacy, pp. 18–29.
30 Danos, Graphicacy, p. 2. It is noteworthy in this regard that ‘Graphicacy’ has been chosen as a
company name by one of the American dot-coms in data visualization, information graphics, graphic
design, motion graphics, and so on.
31 de Vega et al., eds, Models of Visuospatial Cognition; Shah and Miyake, eds, The Cambridge
Handbook of Visuospatial Thinking.
32 Tversky, ‘Functional Significance’; Newcombe and Learmonth, ‘Development of Spatial
Competence’.
33 ‘Graphicacy as a Form of Communication’, pp. 91–2.
34 Lakoff, Women, Fire; Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors; Bloom, ed., Language and Space; Pinker,
The Stuff of Thought.
35 Richardson et al., ‘ “Language Is Spatial” ’; Richardson et al., ‘Spatial Representations’; Libby
and Elbach, ‘The Role of Visual Imagery’, p. 161.
human perception to process object-like visual signs and symbols, and their spatial
relationships within more complex graphic representational systems, as proxies
for concepts and abstract thought. Whilst this capacity is universal, the ability to
communicate conceptual information through specific graphic devices depends
on a person’s familiarity with certain cultural systems of graphic visualization,36
which are usually historically specific.
The vast majority of graphicacy studies to date have concentrated on maps,
diagrams, and graphs, because of their importance to modern educational prac-
tices. Even though some scholars, such as W. G. V. Balchin, list many other
categories of graphicacy, including traffic signs, health and safety symbols, national
flags, and heraldic devices,37 such categories remain subordinate to the aforemen-
tioned graphic forms of graphicacy in scholarship. But this established hierarchy of
graphic forms is itself a by-product of modernity. Existing evidence indicates that
maps and diagrams had a very limited circulation in late antiquity and the Middle
Ages, and in these historical periods it is probable that less than 1 per cent of the
population could encode or decode information using such graphic representa-
tional systems. In further contrast to the modern age, graphic communication in
the late antique Mediterranean and in early medieval Europe was defined by its
eclectic corpus of graphic signs of diverse origin and nature, the use of which was
facilitated by the very same visuospatial ability of human cognition that generated
modern forms of graphicacy. At the same time, such graphic signs originated and
operated within a profoundly different cultural system of visual representation in a
world of different media, a cultural context that I have discussed elsewhere with
reference to the concept of early graphicacy.38
The typical forms of early graphicacy—‘pop graphicacy’, as it were—combined
basic graphic shapes and lines with decorative symbols, employed glyphic and
glottographic characters, some of which were invested with symbolic meanings
and perceived transcendent properties, and encoded names as well as words and
phrases of symbolic importance in some instances. These graphic devices of a
hybrid nature defy the artificial dichotomy of text and image, because they employ
letters and words as para-textual elements and isolated decorative symbols as para-
iconographic phenomena—both dominated by the signs’ graphic networks of
spatial organization.
0 . 2 . G R A P H I C S I G N S O F AU T H O R I T Y
A N D P O L I T I C A L C U LT U R E
This introduction to the graphic signs of authority in late antiquity and the early
Middle Ages has thus far neglected to provide a precise definition of its basic consti-
tuting unit. ‘Graphic sign’ is a notion that is often considered to be self-explanatory.
36 Postigo and Pozo, ‘On the Road to Graphicacy’, p. 641.

37 ‘Graphicacy and the Primary Geographer’.
38 For more details, see Garipzanov, ‘The Rise of Graphicacy’.
Introduction 9
For this reason, dictionaries and manuals of graphic signs either fail to define the
term,39 or offer somewhat reductive definitions, as in Shepherd’s Glossary of Graphic
Signs and Symbols: ‘Any written, printed or carved mark which is used convention-
ally to convey an idea.’40 Moreover, the term has neither an established definition,
shared across various fields in the humanities, nor one which features prominently
in academic works of cultural history. When one is employed, it has traditionally
been discussed as referring to visual signs of various kinds operating in a number
of semiological systems, with post-Saussurian semiotics providing a common the-
oretical framework for its conceptualization41—as, for instance, in Walter Mignolo’s
discussion of native writing practices in Latin America: ‘Semiotically, a graphic
sign is, then, a physical sign on a solid surface made with the purpose of establishing
a semiotic interaction.’42 Any human-made mark on solid surface can thus be
defined as a graphic sign, as long as it conveys shared meaning/s (i.e. signifies
something) to its producers and audiences.
This definition of the graphic sign is akin to Charles S. Peirce’s broad notion of
sign as equivalent with any kind of meaning, and the Peircean classical division
of signs can similarly be applied to visual graphic forms.43 Based on a sign’s relation
to referent, Peirce distinguished three types of signs (signifiers), which now are
often viewed as ‘universal meaning-making principles’:44 namely icons, indices,
and symbols. Iconic signs signify by resemblance/likeness; indexical signs signify
by contiguity, i.e. existential or physical connection of some kind; and symbolic
signs signify by convention.45
Most graphic signs fall into the latter two groups. After all, ‘the more relevant
the graphic aspects of a sign’s gestalt are to its meaning, the more it is likely to be
pictorial in nature’,46 which will take it into another domain of visual communica-
tion, namely that of picture signs and figurative art. Compared to pictures, graphic
signs tend to be simpler and more abstract in their form,47 and their relationship
to the signified is less direct. Many of them function as indexical signs, such as
christograms and monograms originating in the Graeco-Roman world as indexes
for names. These monograms were connected to their referents through the use of
identical letters, rearranged in visual webs of new spatial relations. Thus, the late
antique bishop Avitus of Vienne referred to his own monogram as the indicium
(disclosure, indication, or evidence) of his name (‘Signum monogrammatis mei
per gyrum scripti nominis legatur indicio’).48 Meanwhile, the Latin term indicium
can also be translated as ‘sign’, and it is in this more narrow sense that the term
‘sign’ is often employed in academic discourse as a substitute for the indexical sign
39 See, for example, Frutiger, Signs; and Post, Saints, Signs.

40 Shepherd, Shepherd’s Glossary, p. 26.
41 For the criticism of Saussure’s privileging of spoken languages and his emphasis on the phonic
substance in the concept of a sign, see Holdscroft, Saussure, pp. 39–42.
42 Mignolo, The Darker Side, p. 78.
43 Short, Peirce’s Theory, pp. 164–72; Sonesson, ‘The Cognitive Semiotics’, pp. 39–40.
44 Stöckl, ‘In Between Modes’, p. 26.
45 Short, Peirce’s Theory, pp. 214–23; Atkin, ‘Peirce’s Theory’.
46 Stöckl, ‘Typography’, p. 207. 47 Stötzner, ‘Signography’, pp. 285–7.
48 Avitus Viennensis, Epistolae ad diversos, 87 (78), in Alcimi Aviti opera, ed. Peiper, p. 97.
and juxtaposed with the term ‘symbol’.49 For the graphic signs discussed in this
book, such a distinction between indexical and symbolic signs is neither straight-
forward nor productive. It is of course true that the sign of the cross developed a
number of symbolic meanings in late antique Christian society and thus func-
tioned as a true symbol. But it cannot be said that the lexical content of christo-
grams was accessible to most Latin readers, as Lactantius’ famous yet perplexing
description of Constantine’s victorious sign makes quite obvious. Most people in
late antiquity were even less capable of comprehending the linguistic meanings
of most monograms, and a shift in ‘modes of signification’50 accompanied the
cultural transmission of monograms on their way from producers and recipients
to external observers. For the latter category, monogrammatic signs were often
nothing more than abstract visual symbols of noble status and authority, or empower-
ing graphic devices with supernatural qualities. Monograms thus embodied shifting
cultural attitudes, social hierarchies, and political power. In doing so, they did not
differ much from graphic signs in general, which are in a state of permanent flux
while travelling ‘from person to person, from age to age, from country to country,
from one domain of use to another’.51
Although similar to other types of signs in their communicative aspects, graphic
signs differ in having specific visual properties, and they can also be classified
according to their visual shapes.52 Frank Kammerzell has emphasized the import-
ance of this aspect in his definition of the graphic sign as ‘a visible mark that is
deliberately produced by a human being on an appropriate carrier and embodies a
particular shape and a corresponding piece of information intended by its producer’.53
Some primary graphic forms have been universal for different cultures—such as a
square/box or circle pervading the world of graphic signs in late antiquity and
the early Middle Ages54—and contemporary thinkers invested such forms with a
range of symbolic meanings. Thus, for an early patristic author such as Clement
of Alexandria, the regular proportions of the square form symbolized security
and functioned as a blueprint for all other things in the world,55 while Plotinus
and Pseudo-Dionysius saw the circle as a shape that likened the human soul with
the divine intelligences.56 Another primary graphic form popular in modern
graphic design, the triangle, is notable for its rare use in the late antique or early
medieval world. In this period, the cruciform shape gradually became the most
popular form of graphic sign, and this development visualized the successful pro-
cess of Christianization, as well as the ubiquitous presence of the sign of the cross
in early medieval visual culture. The shameful sign of capital punishment was thus
49 For a different interpretation of the complex relationship between ‘sign’ and ‘symbol’ in academic
discourse, see Jung, ‘Ziechen’.
50 Gross, Lesezeichen, p. 76; and Stöckl, ‘Typography’, p. 206.
51 Stötzner, ‘Signography’, p. 300.
52 Stötzner, ‘Signography’, p. 286; Frutiger, Signs, pp. 43–51.
53 ‘Defining Non-Textual Marking Systems’, p. 278.
54 These graphic forms were also used by prehistoric Europeans in the Upper Paleolithic era: von
Petzinger, The First Signs.
55 Clement of Alexandria, The Stromata, or Miscellanies, 6. 11, p. 500.
56 For more details, see Chapter 4.
Introduction 11
transformed into a beautiful symbol of transcendent power and divine authority,57

which left a noticeable imprint on the visual world of early medieval graphic signs.
This change epitomized the cultural transformation of the late antique Mediterranean
world and early medieval Europe.
In addition to differentiating graphic signs by their visual forms and their
semiotic relation to referents, Andreas Stötzner has suggested dividing them
by the nature of their referents, into informative signs signifying things, phonemes,
words, and ideas, and emblematic signs signifying people, human collectives,
and institutions.58 Whereas this distinction might be applicable to the taxonomy
of modern signs, it is much less productive for late antique and early medieval
graphic devices. For example, signs such as christograms and monograms can be
defined as emblems, but they also encoded words, and often symbolized ideas.
Furthermore, Stötzner’s distinction is made with reference to modern Western
secularized culture. Late antique and early medieval culture was defined by a
universal belief in the reality of supernatural forces, and thus many graphic
signs were hardly perceived by their contemporaries as passive communicative
or emblematic means. Some, such as occult graphic characters or Christian
signs, were believed to function as active agents, capable of affecting the tran-
scendent world on behalf of their producers, bearers, or viewers. For such
devices, therefore, the process of their production and their use in specific ritual
settings were of utmost importance. When properly employed in late antiquity
and the early Middle Ages, performative signs of this kind were perceived to act as
independent agents of religious and social interaction, as powerful as Byzantine
icons in the post-Iconoclastic era.
The signs repeatedly mentioned in this introduction—such as the cross, christo-
grams, occult graphic characters, and monograms—represent a large group of late
antique and early medieval graphic signs that were to a varying degree involved in
the representation and communication of transcendent and secular authorities,
and for this reason they can be defined as graphic signs of authority. Due to their
symbolic function, such devices encoded graphic information of a more abstract
nature than the non-textual marks of producers that appeared on various material
artefacts in the classical world. It is true that many graphic signs created by lesser
authorities were inspired by this earlier tradition of producer marks; in some cases,
it is hard to draw a precise dividing line between the two visual phenomena—for
instance, in the case of the monogrammatic signs of officials in charge of produc-
tion that were stamped on material artefacts in early Byzantium. Yet the graphic
marks of producers primarily encoded concrete information referring to a specific
master, workshop, or mint, and as such differed from the graphic signs of authority
in the Roman sense of the latter term (auctoritas): ‘authority as guarantee; author-
ity as origin or creation; and authority as personal prestige.’59 Such auctoritas was
primarily moral authority, i.e. ‘the capacity to inspire respect’, as claimed first by
57 Viladesau, The Beauty of the Cross, pp. 3–17. 58 Stötzner, ‘Signography’, pp. 291–3.
59 Krieger, ‘The Idea of Authority’, p. 258. See also Furedi, Authority, pp. 59–69 and 95–102.
the Roman senate and emperors, and later by early Christian ecclesiastical leaders;
its outward signs and symbols were ‘eminently communicable and transferrable’.60
The notion of authority remains culture-dependent. In modern, largely secular-
ized society, where authority is perceived as the ‘legitimate power to command
and to secure obedience’,61 graphic signs of political authorities and visual symbols
of a religious and occult nature are usually considered separately. Yet this distinction
appears rather anachronistic when applied to late antiquity and the Christian
Middle Ages, where authority was commonly juxtaposed with coercive power,62
where divine and supernatural entities were credited with real presence in the
human world, and where imperial or royal authority was increasingly endowed
with transcendent properties. In this world, secular and ecclesiastical agents and
divine and transcendent forces overlapped within hierarchies of powers, and their
competing claims to authority established a plurality of authorities in late antique
and early medieval society.63 In this competitive environment of human and tran-
scendent ‘claimants’, their graphic signs became invested with varying degrees of
authority in concurrent society and its political culture.
Since its introduction by Gabriel A. Almond in 1956, ‘political culture’ has become
an important category in academic research of polities and politics, offering an
alternative approach to more traditional studies of ‘institutions’ and ‘political thought’.
The category of ‘political culture’ was designed to attract more attention to the issue
of how people interact with their political system, and to how people’s behaviour,
attitudes, and beliefs affect that system, although various political scientists have
emphasized different aspects of this interaction. Consequently, they have defined
political culture in various ways—for example, as ‘a particular pattern of orienta-
tion in political action’ with reference to attitudes towards politics, political values,
ideologies, national character, and cultural ethos;64 as ‘a system of political symbols’
involved in political communication;65 or as ‘publicly common ways of relating’.66
The same variability and indeterminacy have characterized the category of
political culture in historical studies, where it became a buzzword as early as the
1980s.67 As Ronald Formisano commented, in those years ‘[p]robably no two his-
torians defined political culture (explicitly or implicitly) in the same way’.68 This
statement remains valid to the present day, although in line with the increasing
popularity of cultural history, historians—and medievalists in particular—have
60 Hopfl, ‘Power, Authority’, pp. 219 and 221.

61 Krieger, ‘The Idea of Authority’, p. 253. For other relevant modern discussions of the concept
of authority and its historical developments, see Arendt, ‘What is Authority?’; Lincoln, Authority,
pp. 1–6; Christiano, ‘Authority’; Agamben, State of Exception, pp. 74–88; Furedi, Authority.
62 Oakeshott, Lectures, p. 293; Furedi, Authority, pp. 1–2.
63 On a secular-religious dichotomy not being useful for late antiquity in this period, see e.g. Rapp,
Holy Bishops, p. 6.
64 Almond, ‘Comparative Political Systems’, p. 396. For a slightly modified definition, see Almond
and Verba, The Civic Culture.
65 Dittmer, ‘Political Culture’, p. 566. 66 Chilton, ‘Defining Political Culture’, p. 427.
67 For detailed discussions of these developments in political science and historical studies in the
last third of the twentieth century, see Gendzel, ‘Political Culture’; and Formisano, ‘The Concept of
Political Culture’.
68 Formisano, ‘The Concept of Political Culture’, p. 414.
Introduction 13
become much more interested in the ‘cultural’ dimension of political culture and
have commonly studied the latter in a manner inspired by Clifford Geertz’s ‘thick
descriptions’.69
Thus, for instance, for Levi Roach, later Anglo-Saxon political culture is very
much a ‘culture of signs and symbols’.70 By contrast, John Watts sees political
culture in late medieval Europe as consisting essentially of ‘three non-governmental
kinds of structure’, namely media (education, art and architecture, preaching,
books, conversations, and so on), social networks (lordship and service, patronage
and clientage, families, dynasties, and clans), and ideology (political ideas, lan-
guage or rhetoric, attitudes, and assumptions).71 Taking a different approach to
Watts, Geoffrey Koziol describes the political culture of France from the tenth to
twelfth centuries with reference not only to the fundamental political values and
mimetic power of kingship, alongside the limited role of noble women in politics,
but also to the material foundations of secular power.72 These examples illustrate
Formisano’s point, yet they also point to the futility of offering yet another definition
of political culture.
This book does not aim to do so. It is here sufficient to point out that this
category refers to cultural settings—both real and imagined—in which politics,
political order, and polities are embedded, and that these settings may differ con-
siderably across various historical contexts. More important for this monograph
is one specific suggestion that I would like to make, namely that graphic signs
of authority should be viewed as an immanent part of symbolic communication
pertinent to political culture and its media.73 Through their cognitive potential to
function as proxies for abstract ideas and concepts, these forms of early graphicacy
functioned as a visual medium expressing and communicating widely shared ideas,
assumptions, attitudes, beliefs, and patterns of symbolic behaviour relating to the
nature, as well as the various sources and forms, of authority in late antiquity and
the early Middle Ages. A contextualized up-to-date study of such graphic signs is
therefore capable of providing new insights into a visual aspect of contemporary
political culture, studies of which have traditionally been framed by late antique
and early medieval written discourses.
0 . 3 . G R A P H I C S I G N S O F AU T H O R I T Y:
H I S TO R I O G R A P H I C T R E N D S
The existing literature on the history of graphic signs discussed in this book is
divided into two disconnected groups. Firstly, a substantial number of detailed
academic studies exist dedicated to specific groups or particular graphic signs,
69 For overviews of political culture studies in medieval history, see e.g. Carpenter, ‘Introduction’;
and Stofferahn, ‘Resonance and Discord’.
70 Kingship, pp. 209–10. 71 The Making of Polities, pp. 129–57.
72 ‘Political Culture’, pp. 43–76.
73 Elsewhere I have discussed this type of communication with reference to the symbolic language
of authority; see Garipzanov, The Symbolic Language.
which are barely known outside specialized academic disciplines; secondly, there
are a few non-specialist overviews of varying quality, addressed to collectors and
the general public, such as Otto C. Flämig’s compendium of medieval and early
modern monograms (2003) and Robert Feind’s manual of Byzantine monograms
(2011).74 Publications in this second category have doubtlessly stimulated interest
in the topic among a wider readership, but to the best of my knowledge, no aca-
demic book since Viktor Gardthausen’s monograph on early monograms (1924)75
has attempted to present a broad analytical study of large graphic data of this kind
covering a long historical time span.
Utilizing his academic background in ancient history as well as Greek and Latin
palaeography, Viktor Gardthausen (1843–1925) was able to compile a broad
survey of classical and early medieval monograms in the Latin West and the Greek
East. His work took into account a wide range of graphic evidence brought into
scholarly discourse in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. For this reason,
his study remains the key reference work on the subject in modern academic litera-
ture. Yet his detailed discussion of various monogrammatic types and samples
lacked the necessary cultural contextualization of particular graphic signs, and in
some cases he interpreted certain monograms in ways later shown to be erroneous.
Almost a century since its original publication, his book has also become outdated
in terms of its corpus of graphic evidence.
Gardthausen’s monograph benefited from a number of specialized reports,
articles, and notes on the history of graphic signs in antiquity that appeared before
World War I and in the Interwar period, a body of material that demonstrated an
avid engagement in this research subject among both ancient historians and
philologists, alongside specialists in early Christianity. With an academic background
in classical philology, the work of Franz Dornseiff (1888–1960) was representative
of the first group of scholars, and his German book (1922) on the use of letters in
ancient mystic and ‘magical’ practices is still referred to in modern studies of
ancient gematria and isopsephy.76 Writing in the same period, the German theolo-
gian and church historian, Franz Joseph Dölger (1879–1940), exemplified the
growing interest of specialists of early Christianity and Christian archaeology in
the history of Christian symbols and signs. His unfinished book on the various
uses and symbolic meanings of the sign of the cross in the first millennium ad,
which was posthumously published by his pupils as a series of essays in the late
1950s and 1960s, remains an important reference work on that topic.77
Dornseiff ’s and Dölger’s erudite studies also highlight the gradual fragmenta-
tion of the scholarly field that explores graphic signs, a result of the growing
professionalization of academic disciplines over the course of the twentieth century.
74 Flämig, Monogramme; Feind, Byzantinische Monogramme. For a critical review of the later work
by Werner Seibt, see JÖB, 61 (2011), 252–3.
75 Das alte Monogramm.
76 Dornseiff, Das Alphabet. This book derived from his PhD on the mysticism of letters, defended
in Heidelberg in 1916: Dornseiff, Buchstabenmystik.
77 Dölger, ‘Beiträge zur Geschichte des Kreuzzeichens I–IX’. Klauser, Franz Joseph Dölger,
pp. 100–1.
Introduction 15
Consequently, such research has become divided into highly specialized academic
disciplines according to various types of graphic signs and/or the media on which
they appeared, and has thus lost some of its appeal amongst scholars more focused
on political and socio-economic history.78
In this process of professionalization, such specialized disciplines have also
developed considerably different approaches to graphic evidence. Thus, specialists
in early Christianity and Christian archaeology—such as Carlo Cecchelli
(1893–1960),79 Erich Dinkler (1909–81),80 Jack Finegan (1908–2000),81 Larry
Hurtado,82 and Bruce Longenecker83—have focused on early Christian signs (the
sign of the cross and christograms), and analysed their symbolic meanings and
wider theological contexts as reflected in the writings of early Christian fathers.
Archaeologists, however, have never systematically analysed the use of such graphic
signs on mass-produced objects and public monuments, and we still lack a com-
prehensive overview of such symbolic usage in terms of media, chronology, and
regional variation.
Early Christian signs have traditionally been treated separately from another
group of graphic signs widespread in the Mediterranean world in the first millen-
nium ad and related to transcendent powers: occult charactera and mystical seals.
These esoteric graphic signs have been discussed by students of deviant religious
practices and related material artefacts such as amulets and papyri, under the cat-
egory of ancient magic—an academic field that was established around the turn
of the twentieth century.84 Consequently, for prominent specialists in ancient
amulets—such as Campbell Bonner (1876–1954) or Roy Kotansky—these were
defined as magical (or sometimes Gnostic) amulets, and graphic characters
inscribed in such media have been commonly described in this academic field as
magical signs.85 Yet this traditional ‘magic’ approach to the study of occult signs
has been questioned in recent years. Principally, many specialists in this field have
admitted the difficulties of defining magic and separating it from religion,86 with
Bernd-Christian Otto in particular questioning the general scholarly use of the
category of magic, instead historicizing it in terms of concurrent literary discourses.87
More importantly, recent research has shown that Christians in Egypt and Syria
not only used such occult characters in late antiquity but also sometimes did so
syncretically with Christian symbols,88 which means that the lines between
Christian and occult graphic signs were less sharply drawn in late antiquity than
78 This can be illustrated by a dictum on F. J. Dölger’s academic profile attributed to the renowned
Russian-American classical historian Michail Rostovtsev (1870–1952): ‘Dölger ist kein Historiker, er
ist ein Antiquar’ (‘Dölger is not a historian, he is an antiquarian’); Klauser, Franz Joseph Dölger, p. 110.
79 Il trionfo. 80 Signum crucis. 81 The Archeology.
82 The Earliest Christian Artifacts. 83 The Cross.
84 For more details, see Bremmer, ‘Preface’, p. 7.
85 Bonner, Studies; Kotansky, Greek Magical Amulets. See also Frankfurter, ‘The Magic’; and
Dickie, Magic.
86 See e.g. Remus, ‘ “Magic” ’, pp. 268–72; Bremmer, ‘Preface’, pp. 10–12.
87 Otto, Magie; Otto, ‘Towards Historicizing “Magic” ’; Otto, ‘Historicising “Western Learned
Magic” ’.
88 See Dickie, Magic, pp. 274–81; Spier, ‘An Antique Magical Book’; Gordon, ‘Charactêres’.
the separated academic fields of early Christianity and ancient magic would suggest.
The same holds true for the syncretic use of such signs on medieval textual amulets,
which, as Don C. Skemer argues, was ‘a geographically widespread Western ritual
practice at the nexus of religion, magic, science and written culture’.89
Scholars of classical and medieval epigraphy, palaeography, diplomatics, sigil-
lography, and numismatics have adopted an entirely different, largely taxonomic,
approach to late antique and early medieval graphic signs—and most importantly,
to monograms. They have usually discussed such signs under the rubric of compen-
dium scripturae, that is, utilitarian devices employed in classical and medieval writing
practices, primarily deployed to abbreviate personal names. Benet Salway’s definition
of the monogram in the recently published Oxford Handbook of Roman Epigraphy—as
a ‘shorthand method of identification that emerges in the epigraphic record in late
antiquity’—is representative of this widely shared attitude.90 From this perspec-
tive, it is hardly surprising that specialists in these auxiliary historical disciplines
have considered classification and decoding to be their main tasks in studying
monograms found on stone, parchment, seals, and coins. Consequently, some
sigillographers and numismatists—like Vitalien Laurent (1896–1973) and Philip
Grierson (1910–2006)—have produced various formal taxonomies of monograms
as well as other graphic devices on specific late antique and early medieval media
such as lead seals and coins, but they have rarely touched upon wider cultural con-
texts facilitating the appearance and popularity of these signs in late antiquity.91
In the past half century, such a taxonomic approach has been successfully used
in Vienna to study the enormous corpus of early Byzantine monograms. In 1971,
Walter Otto Fink defended an unpublished PhD thesis entitled Das byzantinische
Monogramm (‘The Byzantine monogram’), in which sigillographic material was
complemented by known evidence from architectural monuments, silver objects,
rings, ivories, and coins. Fink attempted to establish some general principles used
in the construction of these monograms, and to decode them utilizing a database
of approximately five thousand known names and titles of early Byzantine
officials.92 Yet despite such a systematic approach, he had to admit that a definitive
resolution was only possible for monograms in very rare cases, and that his pro-
posed variants of decoding were just one of several possible options.93 Another
Viennese sigillographer, Werner Seibt, has advanced this method further by check-
ing all the readable letters of a monogram against the database of names, titles, and
offices, in which the letters of each entry were listed in alphabetical order. This
fruitful method produced a number of plausible matches. But still in 2016, Seibt
had to acknowledge that even a limited combination of letters can be interpreted
in many ways and connected with both common and rare names, without an
absolute guarantee which particular one was encoded in a specific monogram.
Monograms combining names with titles and offices are even less predictable for
89 Binding Words, p. 5. 90 Salway, ‘Late Antiquity’, p. 376.

91 Laurent, Les sceaux byzantins; Bellinger, Grierson, and Hendy, eds, Catalogue, vol. 2,
pp. 107–11.
92 The method has been summarized in Fink, ‘Das frühbyzantinische Monogramm’.
93 Fink, ‘Neue Deutungsvorschläge’, pp. 88–94.
Introduction 17
deciphering, and Seibt admits that in some cases he has capitulated ‘in front of
the mass of possible data’.94 These results clearly show both the benefits and
limitations of a formal taxonomic approach to the study of late antique monograms,
as well as the need for contextual analysis to properly situate them as cultural phenom-
ena—analysis that should take into account relevant written discourses, culturally
defined assumptions and practices, and specific historical contexts.95 When a spe-
cific context in which a monogram was created and used is all but lost or omitted,
any suggested decoding and/or interpretation often remains mere hypothesis.
Hence, since the 1990s scholars have begun increasingly to take into account
the historical, cultural, and material contexts in which specific monograms and
other late antique and early medieval graphic signs operated, and to look at their
usage outside the compendium scripturae straightjacket—as, for instance, in Carlo
Carletti’s treatment of the so-called Palma et laurus monogram in the epitaphs of
early Christian Rome, in Charlotte Roueché’s discussion of epigraphic monograms
in late antique Aphrodisias and Ephesos, and in Antony Eastmond’s cultural con-
textualization of early Byzantine monograms.96 In diplomatics, a similar approach
has been propagated by Peter Rück (1934–2004) and his School of diplomatic
semiotics at the Institut für Historische Hilfwissenschaften at Marburg.97 In the
pragmatic editorial introduction to the impressive collected volume on graphic
symbols in medieval charters (1996)—including the cross, monograms, chris-
mons, and rota—Rück defined the task of diplomatic semiotics as follows: ‘to
understand the charter as a system of linguistic, graphic, and material signs (codes)
in a communicative process’,98 and called for more attention to graphic symbols
in this medium. Despite mixed responses to Rück’s approach,99 his efforts have
contributed to an increased awareness of the significant role that graphic signa
and nota played in medieval charters and, more generally, of the importance of
a material medium for the proper understanding of graphic signs. This awareness
is evident in the current major project on Material Text Cultures (Materiale
Textkulturen) at the University of Heidelberg. In spite of the project’s main focus
on the materiality of writing and quasi-writing, its adoption of a contextualized
approach to such ‘material texts’ is highly relevant for historical research on graphic
signs.100 In another drastic departure from traditional diplomatics inspired by
94 ‘The Use of Monograms’, pp. 11–12.

95 For a similar emphasis on the importance of contextual parameters with reference to Peircean
semiotics, see Bedos-Rezak, When Ego Was Imago, pp. 60–71.
96 See e.g. Carletti, ‘Un monogramma’; Roueché, ‘Looking for Late Antique Ceremonial’;
Roueché, ‘Interpreting the Signs’; and Eastmond, ‘Monograms’.
97 This approach was propagated by publications in the Marburg series Elementa diplomatica, with
Peter Rück functioning as its academic editor; see e.g. Rück, Bildberichte; and Worm, Karolingische
Rekognitionszeichen.
98 ‘Ausgabe einer diplomatischen Semiotik ist es, die Urkunde als System von – sprachlichen,
graphischen und stofflichen – Zeichen (Codes) in einem Kommunikationsprozeß zu begreifen . . . ’,
Rück, ‘Beiträge’, p. 13.
99 For a sceptical response, see Kölzer, ‘Diplomatik’, pp. 20–3.
100 http://www.materiale-textkulturen.de (accessed 19 July 2016). For the emphasis on a hermen-
eutic approach to the study of ‘material text’, see Hilger, ‘ “Text-Anthropologie” ’. See also volumes
issued in the Materiale Textkulturen series that started in de Gruyters from 2014.
semiotics and semiotic anthropology, Brigitte Miriam Bedos-Rezak has recently

argued that the medieval charter ‘was an iconic document in which several systems
of signs—the letter, the image, the heraldic emblem—entertained a symbiotic
relationship’, and that the charter’s seal functioned ‘as a sign, conveying identity,
status, prestige, and power-covenant’—a sign combining text and image in a single
discourse.101
Until recently, late antique and early medieval graphic signs remained in the
shadows of figurative imagery in art history—more or less similar to their
marginalization in traditional studies on literary culture. This situation reflected
a deeply entrenched academic ‘assumption that word and image commonly
stand in opposition’.102 In response to this paradigm, the British art historian
Michael Squire has even recently warned classicists and medievalists that ‘our
understanding of “texts” and “images” . . . is socially, culturally and, above all,
theologically invested’.103 More specifically, the modern tendency to separate
texts and images abruptly originated in the early modern period under the
influence of Protestantism, which imposed a residual logocentrism upon the
modern perception of images, whereby ‘responses to images must follow ver-
bally determined patterns of cultural response’.104
At the same time, art historians studying the early medieval decorated book
have dealt for quite a long time with the development of letter-based graphic
forms in this medium. Thus, in 1970, Carl Nordenfalk discussed the late antique
decorated initials that appeared in the fourth century as a new visual phenomenon,
blurring the established borders between text and image;105 and students of
medieval illuminated manuscripts and Insular decorated books in particular have
paid close attention to the interplay between script and image, to the graphic
design of such books as a whole, and to ideographic (‘extralinguistic’) meanings of
display letters and letter-based graphic forms, including the so-called ‘monogram-
matic initials’.106
In recent years, art historical research on the interplay between word and image
has benefited greatly not only from a methodological shift in art history, brought
about by studies in visual studies and visual literacy, but also from interdisciplinary
collaboration with cultural historians, palaeographers, epigraphers, and sigillogra-
phers. This transition is illustrated by a series of workshops at the Courtauld Institute
of Art in London in 2010–11, which assembled both art historians and epigraphers.
These colloquia generated a collected volume on the visual (‘non-verbal’) qualities
of epigraphic writing and images disguised as words in the late antique and medieval
Mediterranean and Near East (2015), which also considered the performative
qualities of such epigraphic writing and pseudo-writing and their role in the con-
struction of authority and identities.107 The level of interdisciplinarity was even
101 When Ego Was Imago, pp. 27–9. 102 Eastwood, Ordering the Heavens, p. 420.
103 Squire, Image and Text, p. 17. 104 Squire, Image and Text, p. 8.
105 Die spätantiken Zierbuchstaben.
106 See e.g. Kendrick, Animating the Letter; Brown, The Book; Hamburger, ‘The Iconicity’;
Tilghman, ‘The Shape’; and Hahn, ‘Letter’.
107 Eastmond, ed., Viewing Inscriptions.
Another random document with
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[“God’s blessing on his heart that made this:” sayd one, “specially
for reuiuing our auncient liberties. And I pray God it may take such
place with the magistrates, that they may ratifie our olde freedome.”
“Amen,” sayd another: “for that shall bee a meane both to stay and
vpholde themselues from falling, and also to preserue many kinde,
true, zealous, and well meaning mindes from slaughter and infamy. If
king Richarde and his counsailours had allowed, or at the least but
winked at some such wits, what great commodities might they haue
taken thereby? First, they should haue knowen what the people
misliked and grudged at, (which no one of their flatterers either
woulde or durst haue tolde them) and so mought haue found meane,
eyther by amendment (which is best) or by some other pollicy to
haue stayed the people’s grudge: the forerunner commonly of ruler’s
destruction.[1750] Vox populi, vox Dei, in this case is not so famous a
prouerbe, as true: the experience of all times doe[1751] approue it.
They should also haue bene warned of their owne sinnes, which call
continually for God’s vengeaunce, which neuer faileth to fall on their
neckes sodainly and horribly, vnles it bee stayed with hearty
repentaunce. These weighty commodities mought they haue taken
by Collingbourn’s vaine rime. But, as all thinges worke to the best in
them that bee good, so best thinges heape vp mischiefe in the
wicked, and all to hasten their vtter destruction. For after this poore
wretche’s lamentable persecution (the common rewarde of best
endeuours) strait followed the fatall[1752] destruction both of this
tyrant, and of his tormentours. Which I wishe might bee so set forth,
that they might bee a warning for euer, to all in authority, to beware
howe they vsurpe or abuse theyr offices.” “I haue here,” quoth[1753] I,
“king Richard’s tragedy.” “Reade it, wee pray you:” quoth[1754] they.
“With a good will,” quoth[1755] I. “For the better vnderstanding
whereof, imagine that you see him tormented with Diues in the
deepe pit of hell, and thence howling this which followeth.”]
[How Richarde Plantagenet Duke of
Glocester murdered his brother’s
children, vsurping the crowne, and in
the third yeare of his raigne was most
worthely depriued of life and
kingdome, in Bosworth plaine, by
Henry Earle of Richmond after called
King Henry the vij. the 22 of August
1485.[1756]
1.
What heart so hard, but doth abhorre to heare

The rufull raigne of me the third Richard?
King vnkindly calde, though I the crown did weare,
Who entred by rigour, but right did not regard,
By tyranny proceding in killing king Edward,
Fift of that name, right heyr vnto the crowne,
With Richard his brother, princes of renowne.
2.
Of trust they were committed vnto my gouernaunce,

But trust turned to treason, too truly it was tryed,
Both agaynst nature, duty, and alleigaunce,
For through my procurement most shamefully they dyed:
Desire of a kingdom forgetteth all kinred,
As after by discourse it shalbe shewed here,
How cruely these innocents in prison murdered[1757]
were.
3.
The lords and commons all with one assent,

Protectour made me both of land and king,
But I therewith, alas, was not content:
For minding mischife I ment another thing,
Which to confusion in short time did mee bring:
For I, desirous to rule and raigne alone,
Sought crowne and kingdom, yet title had I none.
4.
To all peeres and princes a president I may bee,

The like to beware how they do enterprise,
And learne theyr wretched falles by my fact to foresee,
Which rufull stand bewayling my chaunce before theyr
eyes,
As one cleane bereft of all felicityes:
For right through might I cruelly defaced,
But might helped right and mee agayne displaced.
5.
Alas, that euer prince should thus his honour stayne

With the bloud of innocents, most shamefull to be tolde:
For these two noble impes I caused to be slaine,
Of yeares not full ripe as yet to rule and raigne:
For which I was abhorred both of yong and olde,
But as the deede was odious in sight of God and man,
So shame and destruction in the end I wan.
6.
Both God, nature, duty, alleigaunce all forgot,

This vile and haynous act vnnaturally conspyred:[1758]
Which horrible deede done, alas, alas, God wot,
Such terrours mee tormented, and my sprites[1759] fired
As vnto such a murder and shamefull deede required,
Such broyle dayly felt I breeding in my brest,
Whereby, more and more, increased mine vnrest.
7.
My brother’s children were right heyres vnto the crowne,

Whom nature rather bound to defend then destroy,
But I not regarding theyr right nor my renowne,
My whole care and study to this end did employe,
The crowne to obtayne, and them both to put downe:
Wherein I God offended, prouoking iust his ire,
For this my attempt and most wicked desire.
8.
To cursed[1760] Cayn compare my carefull case,

Which did vniustly slay his brother iust Abel:
And did not I in rage make run that rufull race
My brother duke of Clarence? whose deth I shame to tel,
For that it was so straunge as it was horrible:
For sure he drenched was, and yet no water neare,
Which straunge is to bee tolde, to all that shall it heare.
9.
The but hee was not whereat I did shoote,

But yet he stoode betweene the marke and mee,
For had he liu’d,[1761] for mee it was no boote
To tempt[1762] the thing that by no meanes could bee,
For I third was then of my brethren three:
But yet I thought the elder being gone,
Then needes must I beare the stroke alone.
10.
Desire of rule made mee, alas, to rewe,

My fatall fall I could it not foresee,
Puft vp in pride, so hawty then I grewe,
That none my peere I thought now could bee,
Disdayning such as were of high degree:
Thus dayly rising, and pulling other downe,
At last I shot how to win the crowne.
11.
And dayly deuising which was the best way

And meane, how I might my nephues both deuour:
I secretly then sent, without furder delay,
To Brackinbury, then lieutenaunt of the tower,
Requesting him by letters to helpe vnto his power,
For to accomplish this my desire and will,
And that hee would secretly my brother’s children kill.
12.
He aunswered playnly with a flat nay,

Saying that to dye hee would not doe that deede:
But finding then a profer to my[1763] pray,
“Well worth a friend (quoth[1764] I) yet in time of neede:”
Iames Tyrrill hight his name, whom with all speede,
I sent agayne to Brackinbury, as you heard before,
Commaunding him deliuer the keyes of euery dore.
13.
The keyes hee rendred,[1765] but partaker would not be

Of that flagitious fact. O, happy man, I say:
As you haue heard before, he rather chose to dye,
Then on those sely lambes his violent hands to lay:
His conscience him pricked his prince to betraye,
O constant minde, that wouldst not condiscend,
Thee may I prayse, and my selfe discommend.
14.
What though hee refused, yet bee sure you may,

That other were as ready to take in hand that[1766] thing,
Which watched and wayted as duely for their pray,
As euer did the cat for the mouse taking,
And how they might their purpose best to passe bring:
Where Tyrrill hee thought good to haue no bloud shed,
Becast them to kill by smothering in their bed.
15.
The wolues at hand were redy to deuoure

The seely lambes in bed, wheras they laye,
Abiding death, and looking for the howre,
For well they wist, they could not scape away:
Ah, woe is mee, that did them thus betray,
In assigning this vile deede to bee done,
By Miles Forrest and wicked Ihon Dighton.
16.
Who priuely into their chamber stale,

In secret wise somwhat before midnight,
And gan the bed together tug and hale,
Bewrapping them, alas, in wofull[1767] plight,
Keping them downe, by force, by power, and might,
With haling, tugging, turmoyling, turnde[1768] and tost,
Tyll they of force were forced yeeld the ghost.
17.
Which when I heard, my hart I felt was eased

Of grudge, of griefe, and inward deadly payne,
But with this deede the nobles were displeased,
And sayde: “O God, shall such a tyrant raygne,
That hath so cruelly his brother’s children slayne?”
Which bruit once blowen in the people’s ears,
Their doloure was such, that they brast out in tears.
18.
But what thing may suffise vnto the gredy[1769] man,

The more hee baths in bloud, the bloudier hee is alway:
By proofe I do this speake, which best declare it can,
Which onely was the cause of this prince’s decay:
The wolfe was neuer gredier then I was of my pray:
But who so vseth murder, full well affirme I dare,
With murder shall bee quit, ere hee thereof beware.
19.
And marke the sequel of this begone mischiefe:

Which shortly after was cause of my decay,
For high and low conceiued such a griefe
And hate agaynst mee, which sought, day by day,
All wayes and meanes that possible they may,
On mee to bee reuenged for this sinne,
For cruelly murdering vnnaturally my kyn.
20.
Not only kyn, but king, the truth to say,

Whom vnkindely of kingdome I bereft,
His lyfe from him, I also raught[1770] away,
With his brother’s, which to my charge was[1771] left:
Of ambition beholde the worke and weft,
Prouoking mee to do this haynous treason,
And murder them, agaynst all right and reason.
21.
After whose death thus wrought by violence,

The lords not lyking this vnnaturall deede,
Began on mee to haue greate diffidence,
Such brinning hate gan in their harts to breede,
Which made mee doubt, and sore my daunger dreede:
Which doubt and dreede proued not in vayne,
By that ensude, alas, vnto my payne.
22.
For I supposing all things were as I wished,

When I had brought these sely[1772] babes to bane,
But yet in that my purpose far I missed:
For as the moone doth chaunge after the wane,
So chaunged the hearts of such as I had tane
To bee most true, to troubles did mee tourne:
Such rage and rancoure in boyling brests doth[1773]
burne.
23.
And sodainly a bruit abroade was blowne,

That Buckingham the duke, both sterne and stout,
In field was ready, with diuers to mee knowne,
To giue mee battayle if I durst come out:
Which daunted mee and put mee in greate doubt,
For that I had no army then prepared:
But after that, I litle for it cared.
24.
But yet remembring, that oft a litle sparke

Suffred doth growe vnto a greate flame,
I thought it wisdome wisly for to warke,
Mustred then men in euery place I came:
And marched forward dayly with the same,
Directly towards the towne of Salisbury,
Where I gat knowledge of the duke’s army.
25.
And as I passed ouer Salisburie downe,

The rumour ran the duke was fled and gone,
His hoast dispersed besides Shrewesbury towne,
And hee dismaied was left there post alone,
Bewailing his chaunce and making great mone:
Towards whome I hasted with all expedition,
Making due search and diligent inquisition.
26.
But at the fyrst I could not of him heare,

For hee was scaped by secrete bywayes,
Unto the house of Humfrey Banastaire,
Whome hee had much preferred in his dayes,
And was good lorde to him, in all assaies:
Which hee full ill[1774] requited in the end,
When hee was driuen to seeke a trusty frend.
27.
For so it happened to his mishap, alas,

When I no knowledge of the duke could heare:
A proclamation, by my commaundement, was
Published and cryed throughout euery shyre,
That whoso could tell where the duke were,
A thousand marke shoulde haue for his payne:
What thing so hard but mony can obtayne?
28.
But were it for mony, meede, or dreede,

That Banastaire thus betrayed his ghest,
Diuers haue diuersly deuined of this deede,
Some deeme the worst, and some iudge the best,
The doubt not dissolued, nor playnly exprest:
But of the duke’s death hee doubtless was cause,
Which dyed without iudgement, or order of lawes.
29.
Loe, this noble duke I brought thus vnto bane,

Whose doings I doubted and had in greate dread,
At Banastaire’s house I made him to bee tane,
And without iudgement be shortned by the head,
By the shriue of Shropshyre to Salisburie led,
In the market place vpon the scaffolde newe,
Where all the beholders did much his death rewe.
30.
And after this done I brake vp my hoaste,

Greatly applauded with this heauy hap,[1775]
And forthwith I sent to euery sea cost,
To foresee all mischieues and stop euery gap,
Before they shoud chaunce or[1776] light in my lap,
Geuing them in charge to haue good regarde
The sea cost to keepe, with good watch and warde.
31.
Dyrecting my letters vnto euery shriue,

With strait commaundement vnder our name,
To suffer no man in their partes to aryue,
Nor to passe forth out of the same,
As they tendred our fauour, and voyde would our blame,
Doing therein theyr payne and industry,
With diligent care and vigilant eye.
32.
And thus setting things in order as you heare,

To preuent mischieues that might then betyde,
I thought my selfe sure, and out of all feare,
And for other things began to prouide:
To Nottingham castle straight did I ryde,
Where I was not very long space,
Straunge tydings came, which did mee sore amaze.
33.
Reported it was, and that for certainty,

The earle[1777] of Richmond landed was in Wales
At Milford hauen, with an huge army,
Dismissing his nauy which were many sayles:
Which, at the fyrst, I thought flying tales,
But in the end did otherwise proue,
Which not a little did mee vexe and moue.
34.
Thus fauning fortune gan on mee to frowne,

And cast on mee her scornfull lowring looke:
Then gan I feare the fall of my renowne,
My heart it faynted, my sinowes sore they shooke,
This heauy hap a scourge for sinne I tooke:
Yet did I not then vtterly dispayre,
Hoping storms past the weather shoulde bee fayre.
35.
And then with all speede possible I might,

I caused them muster throughout euery shyre,
Determining with the earle spedely to fyght,
Before that his power much encreased were,
By such as to him great fauour did beare:
Which were no small number, by true report made,
Dayly repayring him for to ayde.
36.
Dyrecting my letters to diuers noble men,

With earnest request their power to prepare
To Notingham castle, where, as I lay then,
To ayde and assist mee in this waighty affayre:
Where straite to my presence did then repayre,
Ihon duke of Northfolke, his eldest sonne also,
With th’earle of Northumberland and many other mo.
37.
And thus being furnisht with men and munition,

Forwarde wee marched in order of battayle ray,
Making by scouts euery way inquisition,
In what place the earle with his campe lay:
Towards whom dyrectly wee tooke then our way,
Euermore mynding to seeke our most auayle,
In place conuenient to gieue to him battayle.
38.
So long wee laboured, at last our armies met

On Bosworth playne, besides Lecester towne,
Where sure I thought the garland for to get,
And purchase peace, or els to lose my crowne:
But fickle fortune, alas, on mee did frowne,
For when I was enchamped in the fielde,
Where most I trusted I soonest was begylde.
39.
The brand of malice thus kindling in my brest

Of deadly hate which I to him did beare,
Pricked mee forward, and bad mee not desist,
But boldly fight, and take at all no feare,
To wyn the field, and the earle to conquere:
Thus hoping glory greate to gayne and get,
Myne army then in order did I set.
40.
Betyde mee lyfe or death I desperatly ran,
And ioyned mee in battayle with this earle so stoute,
But fortune so him fauoured that hee the battayle wan,
With force and great power I was beset about:
Which when I did beholde, in midst of the whole route,
With dint of sword I cast mee on him to be reuenged,
Where in the midst of them my wretched life I ended.
41.
My body was hurried and tugged like a dog,

On horsebacke all naked and bare as I was borne:
My heade, hands, and feete, downe hanging lyke a hog,
With dirte and bloud besprent, my corpes all to torne,
Cursing the day that euer I was borne:
With greuous woundes bemangled, moste horrible to
see,
So sore they did abhorre this my vile cruelty.
42.
Loe, heare you may behold the due and iust rewarde
Of tyranny and treason, which God doth most detest:
For if vnto my duety I had taken regarde,
I might haue liued still in honour with the best,
And had I not attempt the thing that I ought leste:
But desyre to rule, alas, did mee so blinde,
Which caused mee to doe agaynst nature and kynde.
43.
Ah, cursed caytife, why did I climbe so hye,

Which was the cause of this my balefull thrall:
For still I thirsted for the regall dignitye,
But hasty rising threatneth sodayne fall:
Content your selues with your estates all,
And seeke not right by wrong to suppresse,
For God hath promist ech wrong to redresse.
44.
See here the fine and fatall fall of mee,

And guerdon due for this my wretched deede,
Which to all princes a miroir now may bee,
That shall this tragicall story after reede,
Wishing them all by mee to take heede,
And suffer right to rule as it is reason:
For tyme tryeth out both truth and also treason.
F. Seg.[1778]]
[When I had read this, we had much talke about it. For it was
thought not vehement enough for so violent a man as king Richard
had bene. The matter was well enough liked of some, but the meetre
was misliked almost of all. And when diuers therefore would not
allowe it, “What,” quoth[1779] one, “you know not wherevpon you
sticke: els you would not so much mislike this because of the
vncertaine meeter. The cumlines called by the rhetoricians decorum,
is specially to bee obserued in all thinges. Seing than that king
Richard neuer kept measure in any of his doings, seeing also hee
speaketh in hell, whereas is no order: it were against that[1780]
decorum of his personage, to vse either good meetre or order. And
therefore if his oration were farre worse, in my opinion it were more
fit for him. Mars and the muses did neuer agree. Neither is to be
suffered, that their milde sacred arte should seeme to proceede from
so cruell and prophane a mouth as his: seeing they themselues doe
vtterly abhorre it. And although wee read of Nero, that hee was
excellent both in musicke and in versifying, yet doe not I remember
that euer I sawe any song or verse of his making: Minerua iustly
prouiding, that no monument should remayne of any such vniust
vsurpation. And therefore let this passe euen as it is, which the writer
I know both could and would amend in many places, saue for
keeping the decorum, which he purposely hath obserued herein.” “In
deede,” quoth[1781] I, “as you say: it is not meete that so disorderly
and vnnaturall a man as king Richard was, should obserue any
metricall order in his talke: which notwithstanding in many places of
his oration is very well kepte: it shall passe therefore euen as it is,
though too good for so euill[1782] a person.”[1783] Then they willed
mee to reade the blacke Smith. “With a good will,” quoth I: “but first
you must imagin that you see him standing on a ladder ouer shrined
with the Tyburne, a meete stage for all such rebelles and traytours:
and there stoutly saying as followeth.”]
The wilfvll fall of the blacke Smith,
and the foolishe ende of the Lorde
Awdeley, in Iune, Anno 1496.[1784]
1.
Who is more bolde then is the blinde beard?[1785]

Where is more craft than in the clouted shone?
Who catch more harme than such as nothing feard?[1786]
Where is more guile then where mistrust in[1787] none?
No plaisters helpe before the griefe be knowen,
So seemes by mee who could no wisdome lere,
Untill such time I bought my wit too deare.
2.
Who, being boystrous, stout, and braynlesse bolde,

Puft vp with pride, with fire and furyes fret,
Incenst with tales so rude and playnly tolde,
Wherein deceit with double knot was knit,
I trapped was as seely fishe in net,
Who swift in swimming, not doubtfull of[1788] deceit,
Is caught in gin wherein is layde no bayt.
3.
Such force and vertue hath this dolefull playnt,

Set forth with sighes and teares of crocodile,
Who seemes in sight as simple as a saynt,
Hath layde a bayte the wareles to begyle,
And as they wepe they worke deceit the while,
Whose rufull cheare the rulers so relent,
To worke in haste that they at last repent.
4.
Take heede therefore ye rulers of the land,

Be blinde in sight, and stop your other eare:
In sentence slow, till skill the truth hath scand,
In all your doomes both loue and hate forbeare,
So shall your iudgement iust and right appeare:
It was a southfast sentence long agoe,
That hasty men shall neuer lacke much woe.
5.
Is it not truth? Baldwine, what sayest thou?

Say on thy minde: I pray thee muse no more:
Me thinke thou star’st and look’st[1789] I wot not howe,
As though thou neuer saw’st[1790] a man before:
Belike thou musest why I teach this lore,
Els what I am, that here so bouldly[1791] dare,
Among the prease of princes to compare.
6.
Though I bee bolde I pray the blame not mee,

Like as men sowe, such corne nedes must they reape,
And nature hath so planted in[1792] eche degree,
That crabs like crabs will kindly crall and crepe:
The suttle foxe vnlike the sely shepe:
It is according to my education,
Forward to prease in rout and congregation.
7.
Behold my coate burnt with the sparkes of fire,

My lether apron fylde with the[1793] horse shoe nayles,
Beholde my hammer and my pinsers here,
Beholde my lookes, a marke that seldom fayles,
My cheekes declare I was not fed with quayles,
My face, my cloathes, my tooles, with all my fashion,
Declare full well a prince of rude creation.
8.
A prince I sayde, a prince, I say agayne,

Though not by byrth, by crafty vsurpation:
Who doubts but some men princehood do obtayne,
By open force, and wrongfull domination?
Yet while they rule are had in reputation:
Euen so by mee, the while I wrought my feate
I was a prince, at least in my conceyte.
9.
I dare the bolder take on mee the name,

Because of him whom here I leade in hand,
Tychet lord Awdley, a lorde of byrth[1794] and fame,
Which with his strength and powre serude in my band,
I was a prince while that I was so mande:
His butterfly still vnderneath my shielde
Displayed was, from Welles to Blackeheath fielde.
10.
But now beholde hee doth bewayle the same:

Thus after wits theyr rashnes do depraue:
Beholde dismayde hee dare not speake for shame,
He lookes like one that late came from the graue,
Or one that came forth of Trophonius caue,
For that in wit hee had so litle pith,
As he a lord to serue a traytour smith.
11.
Such is the courage of the noble hart,
Which doth despise the vile and baser sort,
Hee may not touch that sauers of the cart,
Him listeth not with ech jacke lout to sport,
Hee lets him passe for payring of his porte:
The iolly egles catch not litle flees,
The courtly silkes match seelde with homely frees.
12.
But surely, Baldwine, if I were allowde

To say the troth, I could somewhat declare:
But clarkes will say: “This smith doth waxe to prowde,
Thus in precepts of wisedome to compare:”
But smiths must speake that clarkes for feare ne dare:
It is a thing that all men may lament,
When clarkes keepe close the truth lest they be shent.
13.
The hostler, barber, miller, and the smith,

Heare of the sawes of such as wisdom ken,
And learne some wit, although they want the pith
That clarkes pretend: and yet, both now and then,
The greatest clarkes proue not the wisest men:
It is not right that men forbid should bee
To speake the truth, all were hee bond or free.
14.
And for because I [haue] vsed to fret and fome,

Not passing greatly whom I should displease,
I dare be bolde a while to play the mome,
Out of my sacke some other’s faults to lease,
And let mine[1795] owne behinde my backe to peyse:
For hee that hath his owne before his eye,
Shall not so quicke another’s fault espye.
15.
I say was neuer no such wofull case,

As is when honour doth it selfe abuse:
The noble man that vertue doth embrace,
Represseth pride, and humblenes doth vse,
By wisdome workes, and rashnes doth refuse:
His wanton will and lust that bridle can
In deede, is gentill, both to God and man.
16.
But where the nobles want both wit and grace,

Regarde no rede, care not but for theyr lust,
Oppresse the poore, set will in reason’s place,
And in theyr wordes and doomes bee found vniust,
Wealth goeth to wracke till all lye in the dust:
There fortune frownes, and spite begins[1796] to growe,
Till high, and lowe, and all be ouerthrowe.
17.
Then sith that vertue hath so good rewarde,

And after vice so duly wayteth shame,
How hapth that princes haue no more regarde,
Theyr tender youth with vertue to enflame?
For lacke whereof theyr wit and will is lame,
Infect with folly, prone to lust and pryde,
Not knowing how themselues or theyrs to guyde.
18.
Whereby it hapneth to the wanton wight,

As to a ship vpon the stormy seas,
Which lacking sterne to guide it selfe aright,
From shore to shore the winde and tyde to[1797] teese,
Fynding no place to rest or take his ease,
Till at the last it sinke vpon the sande:

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Graphic Signs of Authority in Late

Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages

To Annika, Elvira, and Lenar

2. Christograms as Signs of Authority in the Late Roman Empire 50

3. The Sign of the Cross in Late Antiquity 81

5. Secular Monograms, Social Status, and Authority in the Late

6. Public Monuments and the Monogrammatic Display of Authority

8. Monogrammatic Revival in the Carolingian World 242

9. The Power of the Cross and Cruciform Devices in the

Select Bibliography 321

xiv List of Figures

xvi List of Figures

List of Figures xvii

xviii List of Figures

List of Figures xix

6.1. The plan of Sts Sergius and Bacchus. 170

xxvi List of Abbreviations

2 Graphic Signs of Authority

5 Lactantius, De mortibus persecutorum, 44. 5–6, ed. Städele, pp. 200–2.

The aforementioned aspects of late antique visual culture—namely the communi-

4 Graphic Signs of Authority

theorist Rudolf Arnheim (1904–2007) as ‘visual thinking’. In the monograph that

12 Arnheim, Visual Thinking, p. 27.

17 Ware, Information Visualization, p. 182. 18 Ware, Visual Thinking, p. 57.

6 Graphic Signs of Authority

logos—such as the Coca-Cola, Nike, or Adidas logos, each estimated to be worth

25 For more details, see Klein, No Logo, especially pp. 3–124.

established concept in educational psychology,29 and consequently entered English

8 Graphic Signs of Authority

36 Postigo and Pozo, ‘On the Road to Graphicacy’, p. 641.

39 See, for example, Frutiger, Signs; and Post, Saints, Signs.

10 Graphic Signs of Authority

transformed into a beautiful symbol of transcendent power and divine authority,57

12 Graphic Signs of Authority

60 Hopfl, ‘Power, Authority’, pp. 219 and 221.

14 Graphic Signs of Authority

16 Graphic Signs of Authority

89 Binding Words, p. 5. 90 Salway, ‘Late Antiquity’, p. 376.

94 ‘The Use of Monograms’, pp. 11–12.

18 Graphic Signs of Authority

semiotics and semiotic anthropology, Brigitte Miriam Bedos-Rezak has recently

What heart so hard, but doth abhorre to heare

Of trust they were committed vnto my gouernaunce,

The lords and commons all with one assent,

To all peeres and princes a president I may bee,

Alas, that euer prince should thus his honour stayne

Both God, nature, duty, alleigaunce all forgot,

My brother’s children were right heyres vnto the crowne,

To cursed[1760] Cayn compare my carefull case,

The but hee was not whereat I did shoote,

Desire of rule made mee, alas, to rewe,

And dayly deuising which was the best way

He aunswered playnly with a flat nay,

The keyes hee rendred,[1765] but partaker would not be

What though hee refused, yet bee sure you may,

The wolues at hand were redy to deuoure

Who priuely into their chamber stale,

Which when I heard, my hart I felt was eased

But what thing may suffise vnto the gredy[1769] man,

And marke the sequel of this begone mischiefe:

Not only kyn, but king, the truth to say,

After whose death thus wrought by violence,

For I supposing all things were as I wished,

2. Christograms as Signs of Authority in the Late Roman Empire 50

3. The Sign of the Cross in Late Antiquity 81

8. Monogrammatic Revival in the Carolingian World 242

Select Bibliography 321

6.1. The plan of Sts Sergius and Bacchus. 170